


We Don't Need Grace

by mia6363



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (Physical abuse is referenced lightly neglect more detailed), Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Olympics, Alternate Universe - Sports, Archery, Bad Parenting, Bullying, Father Figures, Fencing, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Gymnastics, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Minor Character Death, Rating may change in later chapters, Slow Burn, Training, Training Montages, Verbal Abuse, references to early 2000s songs, seriously slow burn, two weirdos can make a right and go to the Olympics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2020-06-15 16:44:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 53,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19621804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mia6363/pseuds/mia6363
Summary: The only reason Stiles and Finstock even met was because the Sheriff needed someone to wear his kid out. Countless clubs and sports turned Stiles away, and the alcoholic gym owner with a foul mouth and crazy hair was the Sheriff’s last hope. What started as an awkward arrangement would become an incredible journey full of gymnastics, blue ribbons, and gold medals.Family isn’t always blood, sometimes it’s finding someone at the right time. Sometimes family is a hyperactive kid who hangs around the gym and his coach who takes his coffee with whiskey.Otherwise known as The Olympics AU.





	1. The Ballerina and the Brat

Thursdays were the fucking worst. 

Thursdays meant that Finstock was out of bed at five, loading up his truck with gross, sweaty towels by five-thirty, and pulling into Beacon Hills Laundromat by six. Thursdays had Finstock sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair that made his ass numb after fifteen minutes. Thursdays had him squinting against harsh fluorescent lights. Thursdays had him licking his thumb and turning the page of whatever paperback he’d left in his glove compartment.

After forty-five minutes his hands would shake too much for him to read.

Thursdays were the fucking worst because he had to _wait_ until at least eight-thirty to get some whiskey in his coffee.

Finstock finally sat in his office and pulled out that week’s invoices and expense reports.

Office was a _very_ generous term. It was barely bigger than the storage closet with a single bulb as a light source and two electrical outlets. The desk that Finstock had used for years he found at a garage sale. He had three bookshelves lining the walls, two shelves full of trashy horror and romance paperbacks, and one shelf full of coffee and miscellaneous bullshit that had accumulated over the years.

He waited for the timer to go off before he pushed down on his French Press, opening his bottom drawer to grab whiskey. The best part of Thursday mornings were when ambler liquid splashed at the bottom of his thermos seconds before he covered it with coffee.

Jordan Parrish knocked on his office door at nine-thirty, a good _three hours_ before it was _acceptable_ for him to do so.

“Fuck off, Jordan!” Finstock took a long sip of his whiskey-infused coffee and swished it between his teeth. “Thursdays are for bookkeeping and that doesn’t fucking _finish_ until at least twelve-thirty.”

After a few sips of whiskey, finance came flooding back to Finstock’s wheelhouse. He had their accounts spread out in his binders, a mechanical pencil, and his reading glasses all _ready_ to be holed away for the next few hours. This was his accounting _sanctuary_ and Jordan _knew that_ —

Jordan cracked open the door.

“I know, but—”

Finstock reeled back, nearly spilling his coffee. Jordan _never_ opened his office door on a Thursday.

“What the hell, Jordan, is the fucking gym on fire?”

“Uh, sir,” Jordan cleared his throat. Finstock’s balls shriveled up at the _sir._ “Mr. Finstock, there’s a visitor for you.”

Sir meant _I don’t know what to do_ and Mr. Finstock meant _serious shit is afoot._

“Aw, fuck.” Finstock took a long slug from his thermos. “All right. Let’s get this over with.”

The last time Jordan dropped a _Mr. Finstock,_ it was because the Petersons were having a meltdown in the parking lot, the product of passive-aggressive digs over a thirty-year marriage that culminated in a shouting-match so threatening that they had to call the police. The Sheriff cuffed them himself.

Surprising to no one, the Petersons divorced months later.

Finstock stepped out onto the gym floor, a smattering of equipment in front of smudged mirrors on one half, and the other half was where the floor softened into mats, the wall was equipped with a barre even though no one but Finstock knew ballet, weighted balls, ropes, and more mirrors. He had his thermos in one hand and a pencil in the other, which he quickly stuck behind his ear when he saw that it wasn’t a fighting couple or a mouthy client who wanted to haggle a new membership price.

The Sheriff of Beacon Hills stood at the front desk.

 _Well fuck my raggedy face,_ Finstock shot Jordan a quick glance, _‘Mr. Finstock’ indeed._

“Good morning, Sheriff.” Jordan grabbed a towel and began wiping down equipment despite no one having arrived yet. Finstock hopped up to sit on the front desk. “What can I do for you— oh shit,” the Sheriff flinched as Finstock caught sight of the little boy that ducked behind his father’s legs. “Hello to you too.”

The kid’s fingers were tiny, grabbing his father’s pants when the Sheriff turned around.

“Stiles,” the Sheriff sighed, “come on, you can’t _hide,”_ the Sheriff bent down and picked the kid up, “Stiles, say hi to Mr. Finstock.”

“Hi.” The kid, Stiles, forced a grin. Finstock grinned back, though it was too early for him to make that shit to reach his eyes. Stiles leaned forward, so quickly that his father struggled to maintain his grip. “Whoa, are those your real teeth?”

The Sheriff cringed while Finstock laughed, loud guffaws that could rattle windows and scare birds. He vaguely heard the Sheriff’s soft, _go play on the mats,_ before he caught his breath. Finstock wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist. The Sheriff winced.

“I’m so sorry about that.”

Finstock snorted.

“What are you talking about? That was awesome. Thursdays are the fucking— sorry, they’re just a bag of crap. But that was,” he felt giggles bubble in his chest again as he gestured to Stiles bouncing on one of the yoga balls, “just what the doctor ordered.” He leaned back on the desk, his fingers itching to uncap his thermos but he wasn’t about to guzzle down booze-laced coffee in front of the Sheriff. “So, what’s going on?”

The Sheriff didn’t return Finstock’s smile, hell, he barely did more than stretch his lips into a flat line. Bland soft-rock struggled to fill the awkward pause that only grew longer and more tense. The Sheriff shifted his weight from foot to foot. Finstock’s patience thinned and he relented, unscrewing his thermos and taking another pull of caffeine and whiskey.

If the Sheriff could smell it, fuck him. It was Thursday and Finstock wasn’t drunk enough to be able to smile and be spoon-fed bullshit.

God, did he really have to leave his office and bask in whatever non-emergency was plaguing the Sheriff’s mind? Finstock had _things to do,_ books to manage, stocks to monitor, and a gym to run. If he was lucky, he could close up shop early if the day was going slow and he’d walk a quarter mile to his small house out back. Finstock smiled into his thermos, taking another small sip, thinking about how he’d kick up his feet, slip on his favorite robe, and watch garbage reality television until he passed out.

Another day in paradise.

He studied the Sheriff, scrutinizing the bags under his eyes and his neatly pressed and clean uniform. Finstock didn’t know him personally, but he wasn’t exactly a fan of authority figures. The one time Finstock _did_ speak to the Sheriff, it was about the Petersons airing their dirty laundry in his parking lot, and that had been a quick, “Thanks, Sheriff,” before he went back into his gym. He didn’t even know the Sheriff had a son, only that he was married and that was because of the ring on his finger.

Finstock wasn’t really _involved_ in the community. Town hall meetings, bake sales, ugh, it made him want to hurl—

“I’d like you to look after my son.”

Coffee, whiskey, and spit sprayed out of Finstock’s mouth. He sucked in air, which was a mistake because then he was hacking his brains out with the Sheriff’s hand on his shoulder. A small voice asked, “is he okay?” and a sterner voice answered. “He’s fine, go back and play.” Finstock wanted to say that his gym wasn’t a fucking playground, but his lungs rattled too hard for words.

He sat up, his eyes burned and his lips cracked, but he could speak.

“What the _fuck,_ Sheriff?”

Finstock hated how his hands shook even though he could breathe fine, he hated that he couldn’t feel an _ounce_ of the whiskey swimming in his veins. He hated how bright and prickly the world became when he was struck sober.

He pushed through the glass doors and even though he never smoked in his life, he really wanted a cigarette. For theatrics.

“— for a few hours on weekdays, more on weekends.” The Sheriff jogged after him, into the bright summer air. Finstock kicked at the gravel. “My wife is sick.” He glanced up at that, rubbing at his arms and squinting against the sun. “Her heart… it’s weak. Any kind of stress is dangerous and she needs rest.”

Finstock nodded, his chest feeling less like it was going to seize at any moment.

“Kids aren’t exactly stress-free bundles of fun, I get it.” Finstock turned to look back at the doors. “Christ, how old is he?”

“Almost five.”

 _“Fuck.”_ Finstock rubbed his mouth, like if he scrubbed hard enough he could erase the booze that clung to his breath. “Noah,” it felt wrong to call him anything but _The Sheriff,_ “I’m not… this isn’t some playground, you know? I’m an only child and I have no experience with kids.” He scoffed. “Aren’t there programs for stuff like this? Sports or clubs or—”

The Sheriff shook his head.

“He never lasts in them. Clubs don’t invite him back for asking too many questions and sports…” The Sheriff smiled, though there was nothing remotely _happy_ about the expression. “He got kicked out of karate because he refused to hit anyone.”

Finstock scoffed.

“Karate is bullshit.”

Noah Stilinski looked at him like Finstock was a nocturnal animal out during daylight. His coffee was cold. He could barely taste the whiskey but he finished it off anyway with three bobs of his Adam’s apple and deep breath when it was done. Noah still had that _look._

_What the hell are you doing here?_

Finstock crossed his arms. _Your guess is as good as fuckin’ mine._

::::

Noah insisted he pay Finstock three hundred bucks a month. Finstock had no idea if that was cheap or expensive.

::::

God, it was weird trying to reshape his thinking into what a _kid_ thought like. Finstock was used to minimum interaction with the citizens of Beacon Hills. His window to the world was Jordan Parrish, the teenager who needed some cash and a job to put on a resume. Jordan adapted to Finstock’s profanity, rantings, and overall demeanor quickly, but Jordan was sixteen.

Stiles was just over four and a half.

“Shit, you’re tiny. Half of these machines would crush you.” The kid’s shoulders jumped. Finstock winced. Finstock knew his gym like the back of his hand, every machine’s weird quirks were easy to understand. “I mean, they won’t _crush_ -crush you.”

The kid was, thankfully, uninterested in the machines. He favored the soft mat flooring and yoga balls. His tiny fingers reached up to grab the barre, pulling a little, lifting up on the tips of his toes.

“What is this?”

That was the other thing Finstock had forgotten: Kids _loved_ to ask questions. Finstock took a long slug of coffee and leaned his hip against the wood.

“That’s a ballerina barre. It helps with stretches and dance practice.”

Stiles rolled his eyes.

“That’s stupid. There are no ballerinas here.”

“Oh yeah? Unroll those eyes, punk, ‘cause you’re lookin’ at one.” Stiles _and_ Jordan whipped around at that. Finstock ran his tongue over his teeth. “What? You think I’m so sharp because I just sit around and complain all the time? No, I get here early and do my warm up routine.”

Stiles’s squealing “no way” was overshadowed by Jordan’s giggling “bullshit.” Finstock snorted.

“What do you guys bet me? I did five tours with a ballet troupe, switched to contemporary for a year before I stopped because I wanted to keep my knees past thirty.”

“Bathroom clean-up tonight,” Jordan spit back.

Finstock snapped his fingers.

“Deal.”

Stiles crossed his arms, moving to the edge of the mat so he was next to Jordan.

“What’s a bet?”

Finstock crouched down so he was eye-to-eye with the little punk.

“A bet means you’re willing to put down collateral because you believe your outcome will win.” Stiles wrinkled his nose. “It means if I win, you give me something. If you win, I give you something.”

Stiles scoffed.

“What are you gonna give me?”

Jordan put up cleaning up the bathroom. Stiles offered his juicebox. In return, Finstock offered Jordan going home early and still getting paid, and for Stiles to have some of the M&Ms that Finstock kept in his office.

Finstock kicked off his shoes, toed off his socks, and tossed his sweatshirt into the corner. Jordan turned up the music just as the song on the radio changed.

He gripped the barre and bobbed his head to the beat.

The first time Finstock saw ballet was on a television broadcast of The Nutcracker in 1967.

He remembered sitting in front of the television, tangling his fingers in the carpet fibers because he felt like he was floating. His eyes swept over the fuzzy images of dancers up on their toes, moving as if they weighed nothing, like petals on the wind. That was the moment his chance at being normal ended. That was the moment that Finstock thought, at five years old, _that is everything I want to be._

When he danced everything made sense.

Life was stripped down to posture, rhythm, and movement. Dance never asked him to think about how his father’s scowl would deepen every time Finstock caught a ride to ballet practice. Dance never made him face the arguments his parents would have when recitals rolled around. Dance never socked him in the jaw because _he needed to feel what it’s like to be a man._

Dance got rid of all the bullshit definitions people built up around themselves until it was just pointed toes, arched backs, and sweeping orchestral music.

Even after all these years, it felt the same.

Finstock hadn’t danced for an audience for over two decades. In the morning, after one thermos worth of whiskey-coffee brew, he would dance to the rhythm of his heartbeat, to the ache in his legs, to the memory of strings, stage lights, and shared smiles with the troupe.

He leapt, twisting in the air, legs outstretched.

When he danced, Finstock forgot that he was a big guy with broad shoulders. He forgot that his smile made kids cry and that his loud laugh once got him kicked out of a restaurant. He forgot that he wasn’t beautiful.

He stopped as the DJ began to transition off the song into the commercials. He was more out of breath than he’d like and he needed to work more on his posture, but he quickly shoved aside self-criticism when Stiles shrieked, jumping up and down on the mat before he sprinted over.

“He’s a real ballerina!” Stiles jumped and Finstock ducked down to catch him, spinning with the kid’s momentum until he fell to his knees on the mat. Stiles gestured wildly at the slack-jawed Jordan. “Jordan, did you _see that,_ he’s a real ballerina!”

Finstock gave Stiles the M&Ms anyway. He also cleaned the bathrooms because he was getting _soft._

“I wanted to be a ballerina when I was your age.”

The afternoon had been spent showing Stiles basic moves, going around to customers and fixing their form on the machines while barking out new routines to Stiles. It was more fun than Finstock had anticipated. Stiles’s little head dipped forward and jerked back up.

“You are a ballerina.”

Ballerina was more like _ballurna,_ exhaustion slurring his words. His head dipped again. They sat side by side on the gym’s concrete steps, overlooking the empty parking lot. The Sheriff was supposed to pick Stiles up at closing time, but he always ran late. According to Stiles, his father was _always late to everything._ Finstock thought it was weird that a Sheriff wasn’t punctual.

“Listen, punk, I’m a fucking gym owner and my knees pop when it’s going to rain.”

Stiles leaned against Finstock’s arm.

“And a ballerina.”

Beacon Hills wasn’t directly off a highway exit. It was tucked away deep in green hills and fog-laced trees. The roads were thin ribbons lost in the weeds. His gym was the only one in town. If someone wanted to go to a chain with better rates and more trainers, they’d have to drive forty-five minutes to a town that _was_ off a highway exit. There were a few houses along the road, and traffic was non-existent after eight.

Highbeams swept through trees down the road. Finstock nudged Stiles.

“Hey, wake up.” Stiles mumbled. Finstock rolled his eyes. “Aren’t you gonna tell me what you want to be when you grow up?”

Stiles responded most to questions. The kid could rattle them off all day, and he was happy to act like he was an expert on all subjects, as if he’d ascended from a mountain after meditating for decades on all the troubles in the world. He spoke with the confidence that only kids could have.

Stiles sucked in a breath, his eyes blinking open as his father’s cruiser rolled into the parking lot. Gravel crunched under the wheels and the engine was so loud that Finstock almost didn’t catch Stiles’s whisper.

“Spiderman.” Finstock held his hand up to block out the high beams before they fried his eyes. “I want to be Spiderman.”

Finstock brushed off his knees and stood up, helping Stiles to his feet.

“Up and at ‘em, superhero.”

The Sheriff got out of the car, looking like he always did. Tired. Exasperated. Bracing himself for a hyperactive child, and immediately smiling with relief when Stiles could barely keep his eyes open.

Stiles always woke up a little when his dad arrived. He’d get a tiny burst of energy as his dad buckled his seatbelt in the passenger’s seat. That night, his voice was a tiny bird’s chirp, high and excited. _Dad, did you know Bobby is a ballerina? Like a real one. We lost a bet because he’s a real ballerina and Jordan had to clean the bathrooms but I think Finstock did it anyway and I got M &Ms. Have you seen a ballerina before?_

His dad always responded the same way, never saying anything just humming. Dismissing the kid not even with words, just sounds. He’d get into the driver’s seat with the same sigh and close the door with the same jerk of his hand.

The Sheriff never thanked Finstock or asked how the day went. He would nod, his lips pressed into a thin smile, like if he made his lips as tight as possible than he could just take his kid and leave.

Finstock didn’t care for bullshit pleasantries anyway.

::::

August heat and was insufferable and Finstock’s wheezing little window-unit at the gym was not cutting it. Finstock drove out to Walmart to get more fans he could sprinkle throughout the gym. It was just blowing sweaty hot air back into the clients’ faces, but it was better than nothing.

“What are you _doing?”_

Stiles had his hands on his hips, watching Finstock and Jordan lug fans out of the truck like they were inconveniencing the almost-five-year-old’s strict schedule. Finstock wiped his forehead, grimacing at how dust mixed in with his sweat to create grey slime.

“You’ve noticed the disgusting heat I’m sure. Well, this is going to combat that in a very, _very_ mediocre way. Hold the door open, will ya?”

For as indifferent as Stiles acted about the heat, he still stood in front of the fans with his arms spread out, whistling into the blades to make an alien-esque trill. He bopped and weaved to the radio and began to twirl just how Finstock had been teaching him. Stiles was not made to dance, not the way Finstock had been hypnotized. Stiles didn’t care about form or discipline, and it was fun teaching someone with a free mindset.

“Oh shit,” Jordan slapped his palm on his forehead after he got the morning paper. “The Olympics are on!”

“Fuck, I forgot!” Finstock ran to the storage closet, Jordan and Stiles close behind him. He threw open the door and dragged out supplies to get the television shoved all the way in the back. It was a big square beast, massive and heavy. “Jordan, we got the,” Finstock frowned, snapping his fingers to try and remember the word, “uh, shit, the thing with the wheels—”

Jordan took off to Finstock’s office. Stiles crawled under Finstock’s arm to get on the other side of the television set.

“I got it,” Jordan wheeled out the desk that was meant to be used in classrooms, with the clunky projector still attached. “If we just unscrew this—”

Finstock and Stiles grabbed screwdrivers and unscrewed the projector. Jordan dragged the projector off and Finstock squeezed Stiles’s boney shoulder.

“You can help me with the tv, right?”

Stiles was in charge of managing the cables while Finstock lifted with his knees and hugged the monster television to his chest. Jordan’s “I got it,” was followed by Finstock’s “watch your hands, watch your hands.” Finstock adjusted the cables and ran them to the extension cord while Jordan stuck his fingers in his mouth to let loose a sharp whistle. The smattering of folks in the gym turned.

“We’re putting on the Olympics if anyone is interested in watching.”

Minutes later, every sweaty jock was sitting cross-legged on the gym floor, their eyes on the television. Finstock rolled his chair out of the office and saw that Stiles couldn’t see over the backs of the folks on the floor.

“You want the chair?”

Stiles immediately moved for it, but then he stopped. His eyes took in the lumbar support pads and the divets that came after years of use.

Kids were supposed to be selfish, in a way that was normal when everything in the world was heightened because it was all so bubbly, bright, and new.

Stiles had moments where he forgot to be a kid. His hand lingered on the seat as the gears turned in his head. Whenever he hesitated, his left hand would shake.

“It’s your chair.” Stiles poked at the squishy lumbar pads. “That’s for your back.”

The NBC logo finally cut into the commercials. Finstock sat in his chair, sighing at how it eased his back.

“Okay. Want to sit on my lap?”

Finstock ended up with his arms hugging Stiles loosely to his chest, feeling his little lungs expand and deflate with each series of breaths. He explained why the Olympics were so much fun, because for two weeks everyone could lose themselves in the love of a sport they rarely practiced or followed. There was a level of patriotism to it, supporting America because it’s easy to root for the home team…

But for Finstock, he loved it for the thrill of the game. People mastering a craft and then going toe-to-toe with other masters all around the world. The rules of the sport and technique acted as a universal language. _It’s wonderful what people can do,_ Finstock thought with only the lightest traces of bitterness, _when they decide to work together._

He held out his hand and Stiles put Finstock’s thermos in it without hesitation. Finstock took a sip as the news anchor announced the change from fencing to men’s gymnastics. The screen changed to show the large mats where the floor routines were performed.

Finstock swished the coffee around in his mouth as the first competitor, a man from South Korea, began. He held out his thermos for Stiles to hold, but the kid’s hands were limp on Finstock’s legs. Finstock snorted and shook the thermos, _Earth to Stiles_ on the tip of his tongue when Stiles’s fingers clamped down. His grip was hard enough to make Finstock flinch.

He leaned over Stiles as much as he could, putting his thermos down on the floor and not caring when it toppled over.

Big brown eyes were transfixed on the television screen.

“Stiles, you okay?” The kid’s cheeks were flushed and his chest was moving, but the silence was unnerving. “Punk?”

Stiles’s head bumped Finstock’s chin when he twisted around to look up at Finstock.

“He looks like Spiderman.” Finstock steadied Stiles, his hands covering the boy’s small shoulders. He was _trembling._ “I want to do that,” Stiles’s pointed to the screen, his other hand still gripping Finstock’s leg. _Like he’s trying not to float away,_ Finstock thought as Stiles grinned. “I want to be Spiderman!”

Finstock couldn’t help but smile back, giving Stiles a little shake to his shoulders.

“Let’s see what I can dig up, all right?”

Finstock was pretty sure the library had some videos on basic gymnastics. It wouldn’t be difficult to at least check, but the _look_ on Stiles’s face… the undiluted, euphoric shock that cracked across his smile… was as heartbreaking as it was endearing. Stiles threw his arms around Finstock’s stomach and _squeezed._

Crackling cheers came from the television’s shitty speakers as the scores were announced. Jordan clapped, and the other customers whistled, eyes on the screen as the next competitor got ready.

Stiles buried his face into Finstock’s chest.

Despite years of alcohol and cynicism building the calluses around Finstock’s hands, he could still feel Stiles’s giddy heartbeat against his palm.

::::

At first, Stiles was told that his mother was sick.

Sick was an easy word to use, simple for a child to say and understand when his father would pull him aside, his grip tight on his wrists. _Your mother is sick, Stiles, you need to let her rest._ Sick meant that his mother needed to stay calm, there could be no extra stress from his desire to play, to ask questions, to laugh… it would only make her more sick.

When Stiles got older and he could handle more than single-syllable words, his father told him the truth.

After he was born, his mother got very sick, and it took her a long time to get better. Stiles couldn’t spell _rheumatic heart disease,_ but he could still say the words and see how they made other adults wither and wilt.

 _Remember, Stiles, peace and quiet,_ his father would whisper instead of _good morning._

“I hope this will be enough shade,” his mother glanced up at the side of their house, and at Stiles’s favorite frog umbrella they’d attached to a pole just in case the shade was chased away by sunlight. “What do you think, sweetheart?”

Stiles woke up every day at six in the morning. His dad would hurry him down the stairs because his mom was an early-riser and if Stiles was barely awake he wouldn’t be too loud. He rubbed his eyes and squinted at the pamphlets that came with the mint and basil seeds.

“The mint is the one that’s important to keep out of the sun, so we should plant them here.” Stiles poked at the soil under the umbrella. “Basil needs more sun, so we can put them all the way on the end. Maybe the tomatoes should go in the middle?”

He frowned, trying to imagine the garden, when his mother hugged him with one arm.

“You’re so smart.” She pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “My little genius.” Even though she was sick, she never seemed weak to Stiles. Her grip was always firm. When she squeezed him all the worried pieces inside of him settled. She pulled him onto her lap and it was moments like this, when her smile pressed against his temple… that made waking up early worth it. “I can’t believe you’re in second grade.”

“What, you thought I was gonna flunk first?”

She laughed, hard enough that she leaned back, pulling Stiles with her. When she laughed, she never seemed weak. Her eyes sparkled, her cheeks flushed, and she held him tighter than his dad would. She caught her breath. Her lips pressed against Stiles’s cheek like a promise.

“You’re getting so big.”

“Stop making me eat gross broccoli and I’ll stay small.”

She snorted and tickled him. He squealed and wriggled in her arms, pressing back so he could feel her laughter. His toes skimmed the dirt, sending a spray of debris hurtling toward the porch. Pebbles clacked against the glass door. Stiles winced when it opened seconds later, his father already dressed in his uniform.

“Stiles, time to get ready for school.”

His mother’s fingers tightened around his pajama shirt.

“Noah, it’s fine, we still need to get to the tomatoes.”

Maybe Stiles could have stayed… if his mother hadn’t immediately started coughing. He was up on his feet and helped her back to the house. His dad steered him towards the stairs. He hurried to his room, always hoping he’d be fast enough to not hear his mother insist _please, Noah, it’s fine, just a cough._ Every time he heard that, and heard his father remind her that her health was more important… it made Stiles grind his teeth and yank on the clothes his father laid out on the bed.

He held his backpack tight to his chest at the bust stop, not looking at his father. It was the first day of school and his dad kept shifting his weight from foot to foot, clearing his throat every few seconds. Stiles kept his eyes ahead.

“Try and,” his father sighed, “make some friends this year, Stiles."

Kindergarten was a rough start. Stiles had cried so hard on the first day, that his mother had to go to the doctor because she was so upset. When she was upset, her sickness got worse. Stiles cried, his father kept hissing at him to stop, to think of his mother. Stiles thought of his mother, and cried harder.

During first grade Stiles realized he really loved learning, reading, and asking questions. He always seemed to ask too many… until the teacher would deflate or someone behind him would whisper, "shut _up."_ He read every book in the “First Grade” section at the library, and got into an argument with their librarian when he wanted access to the other books.

"It’s easy,” his father promised as the bus’s brakes wailed, “just be friendly. Someone is sure to like you.”

The smell of exhaust burned his nostrils. He got on the bus and pretended he couldn’t feel his dad’s disappointment pushing against his shoulders. Pressure to bring home a friend, pressure to have a birthday party that wasn’t him and his mother blowing out candles on a cake. Stiles read that extreme pressures could create gems.

He sat with a weary _thump._

Maybe one day he’d wake up and find that his skin had hardened into glittering diamonds.

Beacon Hills Elementary was a long brick building. The windows had white shutters and the roof was black. There were two playgrounds, the front playground for grades kindergarten to third. Stiles wasn’t sure, but he had the feeling the big-kid playground was way cooler. Bigger slides, bigger swings, a real jungle gym where Stiles could actually get high off the ground.

He wasn’t allowed to bring books out during recess. He wondered if big kids were allowed to bring books.

The baseball diamond was reserved for the boys who played kickball. The balance beam and swings were for girls. All the was left was hopscotch, which was for little-little kids, the sandbox, which was for losers, and the rest of the open field that was cut off by a chain link fence.

A boy sat in the sandbox, hunched over with red sneakers and shaggy hair.

Stiles kept walking until he reached the softest part of the grass. He did his stretches before he copied Bobby’s stance, straightening his back before he spun. It was weird without music, but if Stiles couldn’t bring a book out to recess than he _definitely_ couldn’t bring his Discman.

 _As long as you got workin’ noggin,_ Bobby would rub his head hard with a grin that made Stiles want to learn how to do a backhandspring, _you can remember your favorite songs and keep beat here,_ he’d tap Stiles’s temple before letting go. Heaven, Stiles imagined, would be a lot like Bobby’s gym, where him, Jordan, and Bobby would lean forward to squint at the old VHS tapes they’d get from the library. Instructional videos for gymnastics.

The cher- _chuck_ of Finstock pressing the rewind button, to really _study_ the movement, was a sound that always made Stiles feel at peace. Stiles nearly vibrated out of his skin because he just wanted to get _started._ Whenever it was a new jump, tuck, or flip, Finstock’s hands were always on his ankles, on his knees, making Stiles move like he was in slow motion. _Everyone takes it slow,_ Finstock would grunt, sweat on his brow as he steadied Stiles, _before we go fast._

Floor routines were the most fun. The transitions between big movements felt like dancing, and they were the easiest to practice. Instead of lifting up onto his toes and twirling in the air, he’d drop to his knees, lock his legs, and spin so his body would swivel to where more space would be if Stiles were on a mat. All he had was more grass and—

The kid from the sandbox was right in front of him. Stiles bailed on the movement and ended up rolling on the ground.

“Geez,” Stiles pushed himself up on his elbows, spitting out a wad of grass, “you scared the shit out of me.”

Sandbox Kid froze.

“That’s a bad word.” Stiles got up and dusted off his knees. Joyous shrieks floated over from the baseball diamond. Someone slid into home. Girls jumped off the swings… and the Sandbox Kid wrung his hands. “Were you falling?”

Stiles rolled his eyes.

“No, I was _practicing.”_

The Sandbox Kid squinted against the sun, waving a gnat away from his face. Stiles opened his mouth to explain about transitions during gymnastics andfloor routines, when an ugly laugh bubbled and burst behind him. Stiles turned to see Jeremy Gribble cast a shadow that reached Stiles’s busted sneakers. Sometimes when kids got bigger, they were bullied. When Jeremy Gribble got big, he _became_ the bully.

“Dancing is for girls.” Jeremy sneered. “Are you a girl, Stiles?”

“No.” His dad always said to ignore bullies. Stiles had a hard time ignoring anyone. “What are boys supposed to do?”

Jeremy stepped closer.

“Something cool. Like karate.”

The smart thing to do would be to run. To grab the Sandbox Kid’s arm and get running because Jeremy was big, but he was heavy and Stiles was confident in his speed. But instead he giggled, shrill and sharp the way he would at the gym.

“Oh man,” Stiles howled with laughter, “karate is bullshit.”

::::

Bobby’s gym was the last stop on a different bus than the one Stiles would get on in the morning. He’d watch kid’s get off the bus, one by one, until it was just Stiles for miles of green trees and dirt roads. His face still stung and the bus driver kept his eyes ahead, not once checking the rearview mirror. After the first glance back, he’d stopped. Stiles didn’t blame him. He caught smudges of his reflection against the glass.

It wasn’t pretty.

The doors hissed open and Stiles stepped onto the gym’s parking lot, his backpack slung over his shoulders. The bell above the door jingled and there was a rush of air conditioning that _whoosed_ over Stiles’s skin and clothes.

Jordan looked up from behind the front desk and his mouth fell open moments before Bobby shrieked.

“What the fuck happened to your face?”

Bobby was loud and he had big teeth that chomped around his words like scissors. Stiles remembered how he’d been frightened of him when his dad first dropped him off, but now… nothing was more comforting than the hands on Stiles’s hips that lifted him up onto the desk, the wild green eyes that dragged over his face, and the burst of angry coffee breath over his head. _I know you’re not my uncle,_ Stiles thought as Bobby snapped open a first aid kit, _but is there some other word that exists? One that I don’t know yet?_

Jordan pressed a cold towel to Stiles’s lip while Bobby smoothed his thumb over Stiles’s bruised brow.

“I got into a fight.”

Bobby rolled his eyes.

“No shit, Sherlock. _Why_ did you get into a fight?” He jammed a bottle of rubbing alcohol into his mouth and bit down on the cap, unscrewing it with his teeth as his free hand fumbled for cotton balls. “This is going to sting.”

Wet cotton brought a bite of pain before it was over.

“A boy said that dancing was for girls.”

Bobby snorted and smoothed bandaids over the cuts.

“That’s a bunch of bullshit.”

Bobby’s hands were softer than his father’s, but they were a little bigger. His palms were warm against Stiles’s cheeks, his thumbs resting on the bones in Stiles’s face. He turned Stiles’s head from side to side. When Bobby looked at him, with narrowed eyes and a twisted frown, it didn’t feel cold at all. If anything, it made Stiles smile.

“Yeah, I know.” Stiles sniffed and jumped off the desk. “I think I made a friend though.”

Bobby’s eyebrows shot up.

“The kid who hit you?”

“Psh,” Stiles rolled his eyes. “No. Another kid. He got beat up with me.” Stiles shrugged. “We talked in the nurse’s office. He was nice.”

“Good.” Bobby clapped his hand on Stiles’s shoulder. “Next time you two hang out, do it with less bloodshed, all right?”

The moment his toes touched the mat, it was like he was at the beach, the sand pulling every ache and worry down, out, and away. Stretches melted into dancing. Dancing leapt into… into…

Twisting and twirling through the air. There was nothing like it, nothing that Stiles had ever felt or found anywhere else. His mind would clear until all he cared about was his body and how he could make it move. Fight gravity. Increase distance between him and floor. His feet slapped on the mat for a moment before he was in the air again.

When he couldn’t sleep, he’d think about the videos from the library, replaying each movement in his head.

His feet hit the mat. He ran into a leap, his hands outstretched as he dove forward. His palms hit the mat, and he felt the force transfer from the floor, up his arms, spine, and then he was twisting his wrists as he _pushed—_

Dancing was fun. He liked how Bobby would crack a smile, shaking his head as they’d go from song to song, getting sillier and sillier until they were shaking on the floor, laughing like they’d never get in trouble for being too loud. Dancing, Stiles knew, was Finstock’s _it._ The same way gymnastics was _it_ for Stiles.

When Bobby danced alone… Stiles saw it.

Glimmers of something bright, bubbling, and liquid. Something that, at seven years old, he didn’t have the words for. He just knew how he _felt_ when he watched Bobby stray from silly and approach… grace. It was like watching a bird take flight, a butterfly sailing through a sunbeam, and his mother’s breath catching right before she laughed.

His feet hit the mats and he tucked in, rolling until he straightened out his body, spreading his legs and pointing his toes, pushing his palms against the mat until he was back on his feet.

Sweat dripped down his neck as air burned in his lungs. He held his arms out to keep from stumbling.

Hushed silence shattered into whoops and cheers. Bobby ran to him, arms spread wide.

Every hug from Finstock felt like a crash of waves against rock, the _thud-hiss_ of contact before Stiles was lifted and spun. Bobby laughed louder than his mother, his whole body hitched with every breath, and he smelled sharp, like coffee, sweat, and something else that burned Stiles’s nose.

Bobby spun Stiles a few times before he set him down. Jordan high-fived him, and the _clap_ of their palms coming together always stung, but Stiles didn’t mind. The lingering tingle on his skin was a reminder that… no matter what his dad thought, Stiles _did_ have friends. They just weren’t friends he made in school.

“Holy shit,” Bobby shook Stiles’s shoulders, “you gave me a fucking heart attack with that handspring and… I don’t know, that half-flip and twist, what the hell was that?” His fingers were warm in Stiles’s short hair, and he rubbed, back and forth, for a few moments as he laughed. “Punk. Come on, let’s run it again. Try and get more air on your jumps.”

By the time they were done, Stiles’s body felt like it was made of jelly. He didn’t have the energy to flinch when Finstock cleaned his face with alcohol before putting on fresh bandaids. Their breath fogged out as they sat on the steps, breathing in deep.

Stiles rested his head on Bobby’s shoulder.

Gravel crunched under tires. Stiles lifted his head, his heart beating faster which always gave him a burst of energy. He stood in time with Bobby, a sharp breeze cutting across their cheeks as his father opened the door. His dad’s eyes narrowed on Stiles’s face, and Stiles realized that he’d been so happy that he forgot about his injuries.

 _“Stiles,”_ Stiles flinched as his dad stepped closer, his boots thudding against the pavement. “What happened to your face? What do you think your _mother_ will do when she sees that?”

The best part about being in the air, about never staying on the ground for more than a split-second before he pushed back _up_ … was that he never had to worry about his mother or father. When he was twisting, flipping, and leaping… he didn’t _have_ to think about his mother’s heart problem, about his father’s endless sighs and disappointments.

That was the worst part about coming down.

“M’sorry.”

Half the time, Stiles wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for anymore.

“Stiles,” his dad sighed, like even that display of disappointment took too much energy. “She can’t see you like that.”

Gravel ground under Finstock’s shoe. Stiles jerked his head up, but Bobby turned away, his chin tilted up, his hair wild and bits of light from the high beams shining through it. Stiles hadn’t thought that maybe… maybe _Bobby_ would be disappointed in him too, that the sighs were contagious. That it was a different kind of sickness that only adults could catch. Between breaths, Stiles was suddenly struck with the nightmare that _Bobby_ would start sighing, would start telling Stiles to calm down, be quiet, please.

_Think of your mother._

_Please,_ Stiles never went to church but he’d seen enough about it on television to get a vague grasp on the concept of God. _Please,_ Stiles prayed, _don’t take Bobby._

“He can stay with me.” Bobby crossed his arms. “If it’s that big of an issue, Stiles can stay with me tonight.”

His eyes burned, and it was hard to breathe through the confusing mixture of shame and relief. He gripped Bobby’s shirt, tugging it. He had to say thank you, before his dad reminded him in that tone that soured the air. _Say thank you, Stiles. Inside voice, Stiles. Have some self-control, Stiles._ He pulled, hard enough that he saw the blurry outline of Bobby looking down at him.

Stiles opened his mouth. A tiny, shaking sound was the only warning he could give before tears rolled down his cheeks. He was being too loud, he was drawing too much attention to himself, but he couldn’t stop, he couldn't get control of his breathing, of his inability to… to swallow what he was feeling.

Two strong hands lifted him up. His legs dangled in the air, and by the time he’d stopped crying, he realized that Bobby was carrying him, walking him down the dirt road that stretched back into the woods behind the gym.

“You live back here?”

Bobby shifted his arms so Stiles was more on his hip.

“Yee-up.” The trees parted and sure enough, there was a _house,_ tucked away in the back. “Mi casa es su casa.”

Stiles sniffed and slid down from Bobby’s arms.

“What does that mean?”

“My house,” Finstock held the door open, “is your house.”

It was a small yellow house with a tiny porch and a pink lawn chair propped out front. The paint was peeling in some places, but the bright yellow peeked out behind dirt and moss. His kitchen was smaller than Stiles’s, his drawers were half open and duct tape held a few cabinets together.

Whenever Stiles cried at home, his dad’s first question was _why are you crying?_ Whenever Stiles cried it was a firm hand on his arm steering him into an empty room and telling him to get his breathing under control like they practiced.

Bobby pulled out a chair, got a cold pitcher of water out of the refrigerator, and sat down next to Stiles.

“So,” Bobby nudged Stiles’s shoulder, “want to get a pizza?”

The tightness in his chest vanished, so quickly that he shuddered. Stiles ducked his head, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hands.

“Do you,” his breath caught, only once, before he got it back, “do you like pepperoni?”

Bobby snorted.

“Fuck yeah, I _love_ pepperoni.”

::::

 _Deep breaths like Bobby said,_ Stiles breathed in and counted down from ten. The other kids had their coaches in their ear, their parents rubbing down their legs before the big event. Stiles leaned on Bobby, trying not to notice how other kids stared at him. He nudged Bobby’s shoulder.

“You figured out the zoom?”

“I swear I have the manual memorized.” Bobby flashed him a grin. “How are you feelin’?”

 _Out of place_ was the first thing that came to Stiles’s mind. He’d never been to any kind of competition before, the closest being field day on the last day of school. He’d never been in a car for more than forty minutes, and he’d never been in a car that wasn’t driven by his father. Stiles had never been to a _gymnastics competition_ before, and it showed.

He only brought one gym bag and a water bottle that his mother had decorated with holographic star and rainbow stickers. Part of the long drive had been to buy a proper singlet and shorts. He still pulled at it, even now, while none of the other kids fidgeted the same way. They stared at him, at how his parents weren’t with him, at how his coach was messing with a camera and not going over his routine.

“Nervous.” Stiles swallowed, taking a final sip of water before he screwed the cap back on. “But I’ll be okay.”

Bobby had suggested a competition to see if Stiles would like it. They had to send in videos of Stiles’s daily routine in the gym in order for him to be placed, and then… and then it was driving over two hours away on a Saturday morning to sit in a giant gymnasium for three hours. It was kids looking at sneakers, at the gym bag he borrowed from Bobby, and at the different last names on his and Bobby’s name tags.

“That’s good.” Finstock rubbed his palm over Stiles’s head, patting his back twice as Stiles’s name was called. “Just remember what I told you.”

Stiles nodded and walked to the mat like all the other kids before him.

_“This can be a one-time thing if you’re not feeling it. You’ve got autonomy, Stiles. That means if you say, ‘hey, Bobby, this sucked shit,’ then I’m gonna believe you.”_

The mat was bigger than Bobby’s. The bleachers were high and longer than Stiles had ever seen before. There was a long table with older men and women sitting with notebooks out and pens ready. Stiles saw that other kids waved to the judges table, and then to the bleachers, but Stiles kept his hands at his sides. There might be a chance he’d never come back, and Bobby was on the sidelines.

He smiled at him. Bobby grinned and had the camcorder ready.

The first few plucks of soulful piano began. Stiles grinned and kicked off before the first _“Caroline,”_ airborne the moment the rhythm was established.

When Bobby said they had to pick a song, that was the only one he wanted. When he asked why, Stiles shrugged, his ears warm when he mumbled, _“It’s the first song you danced to,”_ back when Stiles had first started going to the gym. One random song on the radio that Bobby had to prove that he’d done ballet. Whenever Stiles heard it he always reached for the volume to turn it up.

It made Stiles feel light on his feet, and that day was no different.

His hands hit the mat and Stiles pushed, spinning and grinning because it was his _favorite song._ His feet hit the mat on _“mighty fine,”_ the _smack_ sending tingles up Stiles’s spine as he rolled his shoulders, bobbing his head to the beat before he turned, running into a cartwheel that melted into a front handspring.

He slid into a split before bouncing back onto his feet, focusing on gathering his breath as he struck ballet poses.

He took off running, hands on the ground, then pushing, his legs stretching, hitting the ground, pushing and floating until—

_It just felt like… right, you know?_

Bobby never avoided Stiles’s questions like his dad did. He never spoke in that oddly high-pitched lilt where the words clung to his dad’s teeth. When Stiles asked Bobby why he did ballet, he thought that might be when Bobby finally spoke like his dad. He was wrong.

Stiles twisted in the air, arms crossed over his chest.

_I saw it on television and it just… I knew that I wanted to at least try it. And once I did… once I moved like they did, that was it for me._

The move was the hardest one Stiles had tackled so far, but when he nailed it, he really _stuck it,_ relishing in how it made Bobby scream obscenities and the rest of the people at the gym clap. Stiles brought his legs back down in time to hit the mat, a few inches away from the edge. He sucked in air and straightened his back, fighting momentum as he turned on the balls of his feet to face the table.

A sharp whistle cut through the air and Stiles relaxed, smiling at Bobby’s loud claps. He bowed his head once and stepped off the mat, barely taking three steps before he was hugged.

“You fucking _nailed_ it, punk!”

Stiles pulled as much air into his lungs as he could.

“I wasn’t sure if I was going to get my legs down in time and then I did and I just kept thinking of what you said about ballet and—” Stiles heaved in more air, “it looked good?”

“You kiddin’ me?” Bobby’s grin was all teeth. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepend. “It looked fucking great.”

He clapped Stiles on his shoulders twice, squeezing on the last one before letting go. It was the kind of contact that Stiles saw in movies about football, where it was bigger kids and adults being rough. They both turned to the judges table. Stiles chewed on the sleeve of his sweatshirt, pulling at frayed threads with his teeth and tongue as his stomach twisted. The judges turned to each other, whispering before holding up cards one by one.

9.7 from the owlish woman with big glasses and grey hair.

7.2 from a young man with a thin nose and blonde hair.

8.9 from the chubby man with a bad comb-over.

8.4 from a woman with red hair and bright lipstick.

Final score: 8.55.

Bobby squeezed Stiles in a tight hug and he pointed to the leaderboard.

“You’re up _high,_ punk.”

A third-place medal hung around Stiles’s neck by the time they left. It was bronze with feathery engravings. Stiles ran his fingers over the ridges as Finstock pushed his water bottle in his hands.

“Stay hydrated. We passed a diner on the way home, want to stop and get something to eat?”

Stiles nodded, feeling floaty and numb. He kept bumping his shoulder against Bobby, not able to stop from swaying into his orbit. Bobby opened the door for him, reaching over to buckle his seatbelt when a voice made him withdraw.

“Wait,” they both peered back to see the owlish woman with big glasses running toward them, “please wait!” She had long grey hair that fell out of its loose bun. She had to put her hands on her knees and Stiles held out his water bottle. She waved her hand, dismissing him as she pushed her hair out of her face. “Sorry, I need a moment, you left so quickly.” Bobby had his hand out, ready to catch her if she needed it. “I haven’t seen you guys before. Would it be presumptuous to assume that you’re new to the competitive circuit?”

Stiles blinked at the words he’d never heard while Bobby’s lips flattened into a thin line. He crossed his arms and leaned against the car.

“I guess it’s not presumptuous if you’re right.”

“Forgive me. I just,” she held out her hand, “I’m Evelyn Goodwin, I’m on the judges panel and…” she smiled at Stiles in that strained adult way. Like he was a dog begging for food at the table. “You were very good, young man, but if you had any interest in continuing, some slight changes would increase your score.” Stiles hugged his arm around his stomach, the numbness vanishing as Bobby squared his shoulders. Evelyn continued, her cheeks flushed. “Just formal details, I have some booklets. If you’re interested in competing again.”

She held them out to Bobby. He took them, not gently or politely.

“Thanks.”

Evelyn glanced at Stiles again and he turned away, crossing his arms and staring at the driver’s seat.

“Your son has incredible talent. If you’re serious about this, read those books,” Evelyn took a step back. “And if you have access to rings and pommel horse I’d get him started on those right away.”

If there was one thing Stiles _hated,_ it was adults talking about him like he wasn’t there, like just because he was a kid he was an idiot. He curled in on himself as Bobby huffed.

“I’ll take it under consideration. Thanks Ms. Goodwin. Have a good night.” Fingers gently shook Stiles’s shoulder. “You all buckled in, bud?” He nodded. “All right.”

They were on the road in three minutes. Stiles was asleep in five. Car rides always put him to sleep, the deep kind of sleep that always left him disoriented. Bobby shook him awake and Stiles jerked, his eyes blinking open, sluggish and offbeat.

“We’re here. Still hungry?”

Stiles yawned.

“Yeah.”

The diner was busy, but the waitress found them a booth tucked away in the back. The seats were bright red with sparkles underneath a thick lamination. The menu was long and the waitress had a raspy voice. Stiles asked for a root beer. Bobby asked for coffee.

“Hey.” Bobby kicked Stiles’s sneaker. “Remember what I said. You don’t have to do shit if you don’t want to, got it?”

Stiles twisted his straw wrapper between his fingers, thinking of how he sailed through the air, and how the Evelyn looked at him in the parking lot. Like he was playing with something expensive.

“I know.”

Bobby ordered tapioca pudding with extra whipped cream and another coffee. Stiles asked for grilled cheese and fries.

The waitress gave Stiles crayons so he could draw on the back of his paper placemat. He lazily made swirls of purple and pink, thinking of ballerinas and pop music. Bobby rewound the camcorder, his tongue bitten between his teeth.

“Bobby?” Stiles put down his crayon, grateful that when Bobby looked up, his frown vanished. “Why did you stop dancing? In the ballet, I mean.”

Whenever they danced together, Stiles couldn’t imagine why Bobby would stop. The way he laughed… it lacked the usual rough edges. Dancing made Bobby forget the quick barbs that spit from his mouth on a moment’s notice.

“Ballet is physically intensive.” Bobby cupped his hands around his coffee, blowing on it. “That means it eats away at your body. It’s a rush, it’s my favorite thing… but it came to a point where I had to choose if I wanted to have terrible arthritis and need a cane by forty… or to stop and save my body while I still could.” Bobby shrugged with a smile, even though Stiles could tell he was sad. “I chose my body.”

Stiles’s throat tightened.

“Is gymnastics physically intensive like that?” Bobby nodded with the same sad smile. Stiles picked at the corner of his placemat, chewing on his lower lip. The more he thought about it, the clearer the answer became. “I want to do what you did.” Bobby straightened. Stiles held his chin up. “I want to keep going and stop before it does permanent damage.”

The waitress brought their plates and left with a, _“holler if you need anything.”_

“All right,” Bobby held out the bright cherry to Stiles. “We can definitely do that.”

The cheese was gooey when Stiles bit into it, feeling much better the moment toasted bread hit his tongue. He relaxed against the squeaky fake leather and watched Bobby dip his spoon into the tapioca pudding.

“That lady thought you were my dad, huh?”

Bobby coughed on a spoonful of whipped cream. Stiles laughed and threw a fry at him, not moving fast enough to duck from the flick of rolled up napkin that Finstock sent his way. The waitress returned with a raised eyebrow.

“You two need anything else?”

“More coffee,” Bobby wheezed, “would be great.”

Stiles tapped his fingers along the table and kicked Bobby’s knee.

“I’ll take another root beer on the rocks.”

 _“On the rocks,_ where did you learn that?”

Bobby squawked. The waitress rolled her eyes.

“He probably learned it from his old man.”

She shot Bobby a pointed look before she walked away. Stiles tried to cover his mouth, to squash the high-pitched giggles that bubbled in his throat. He was too late, they were out in the air. He slammed his eyes shut, waiting for a harsh _quiet down,_ a squeeze to his arm and a reminder that he _really needs to calm down._

It wasn’t his father’s hand that reached over the table. It wasn’t his father’s palm that closed over Stiles’s head and rubbed, warmth coming through the friction before he pushed back.

“Fucking punk kid,” he stole a fry off Stiles’s plate. Stiles blinked, dazed from sugar and disbelief. “On the rocks,” Bobby shook his head with a grin. “Unbelievable.”

Stiles toyed with the medal around his neck. Bobby thumbed through the booklets Evelyn gave him. Silence scared Stiles. When he was at home it was meticulously maintained and obeyed. At school, it meant something bad was coming.

Clinks and dings from the other people’s forks and knives, murmured conversations from other tables, and soft music that fizzled through speakers filled the hush. Silence made Stiles feel like he was disappearing, swallowed by emptiness.

He listened to the velcro-scrub _scritch-scritch_ that came from Bobby scratching at his face. He listened to the _hiss_ from the kitchen griddles. Stiles marveled at the feeling of peace, at how his body felt light despite not being in the air.

Bobby glanced up from the booklets and smiled.


	2. If It Works For Him, It Works For Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I said I was sorry for swearing.” Stiles had gotten two detentions, both for swearing. The main office, where the rooms behind the reception desk were always closed, was for detention. Counsellors were… well, Stiles wasn’t _sure_ what they were for, but if they were in the main office it couldn’t be anything good. “I’ll be more careful.”

On Finstock’s twenty-first birthday, he shit himself on the corner of 30th and Market in Philadelphia.

It had been a sweltering summer, he’d been drinking with… well, Finstock couldn’t remember _who_ he’d been drinking with. The only thing he _could_ remember was the hotel where the dance troupe was staying. When the bar closed he waited for the WALK sign to finally illuminate, alcohol making the humid air bearable. He remembered thinking, _This is such a nice night,_ right before he realized that his thighs were warm and not from pleasant feelings buzzing in his veins. Every step _squished._

That level of discomfort was nothing compared to pulling into Beacon Hills Elementary School’s parking lot.

His junker truck had rust and dirt around the wheels. He took a whiff of his jacket collar and immediately unbuttoned it, recognizing the stench of sweat and booze and hoping to _God_ that it didn’t linger on his shirt. He was left with a white tank top with a hole by his belly button and a mustard stain by the hip. He dug around in the back of his truck for a red plaid shirt.

All the other adults had nice jackets and scarves that were definitely photographed in glossy catalogues. They didn’t have holes in the bottom of their shoes. Finstock stuck out, locking his car with no kid and no wife. Eyes drifted toward him as kids in various costumes, outfits, and big bags bustled around him, a growing question of _who are you_ and _what are you doing here_ burning holes into his back until—

“Bobby!” A familiar shriek had Finstock opening his arms in time to catch Stiles. The wiley kid was getting taller by the day, but that didn’t stop him from wrapping his arms around Finstock’s neck and pulling. It was easy to lift him up, settling the kid’s weight on his hip and walking, the sea of suspicious stares parting, ebbing, and softening until Finstock was just another parent in the crowd. “Where’s your jacket?”

“Eh,” Finstock shrugged, following where Stiles was pointing to a woman and a little boy on the sidewalk, “it didn’t really match the uh,” Finstock grimaced, “style.”

Stiles snorted as Finstock let him down.

“Since when do you give a shit about style?” The boy gasped, his mother’s eyes widened, and Stiles did his best to look apologetic but couldn’t dampen the excited smile on his face. “Sorry, Ms. McCall. Sorry, Scott. Um, this is Bobby.”

Stiles was still at that heartbreaking age where he didn’t notice that the world was not as enthusiastic for Bobby Finstock as he was. Stiles’s fingers wiggled, an unspoken _ta-dah_ that tightened Finstock’s throat as the other kid, Scott, nudged Stiles’s shoulder.

“You call your dad by his name?”

“What?” Stiles shook his head. “No, Bobby’s not my dad.”

Scott’s mom’s eyebrows rose further. Finstock _didn’t_ shit himself, but at least the one time he _had,_ he’d been alone. Stiles immediately pulled Scott’s sleeve, a rushed _you got the costume right,_ before they both ran into the school.

Finstock’s hand hovered, to maybe flag Stiles down with a _where the hell am I supposed to go now,_ but then Stiles turned. The kid had a sixth sense for when Finstock needed him.

“You sit with Mel— I mean, Ms. McCall, okay, Bobby?”

Then the two kids were gone. Finstock’s palm itched for his thermos, but he wasn’t _that_ far gone to know that taking a whiskey-coffee thermos into a talent show for fourth graders would be a bad idea. He rubbed his hands against his jeans and offered Ms. McCall a strained smile.

“I guess I’ll tag along with you,” he shrugged, already missing Stiles. The kid was a great buffer between him and the rest of the world. “Buddy system, Ms. McCall?”

He held out his arm. Ms. McCall’s smile was much sweeter, and she pushed his arm back to his side.

“Relax. Call me Mel. Everyone’s first talent show is nerve-wracking.”

Finstock exhaled loudly, blowing out his cheeks as they joined the herd of parents.

“Stiles looks like he’s taking it stride. I guess he’s used to performing by now, but this is the first time it’s a school thing.” Finstock realized that he hadn’t actually introduced himself. “Sorry, I’m Bobby Finstock. Stiles’s coach.”

Mel shook his hand, a brief squeeze and release as they both grabbed aisle seats so it would be easier to film. Her camera was slim and new. Finstock was still using the clunker the Sheriff gave him before Stiles’s first gymnastics competition.

Mel sat behind him, her forearm pressed against the back of Finstock’s seat. It was a fourth grade talent show, not a Broadway play, so there were no programs.

Sitting through uninspiring tap dance routines, one kid who was halfway decent on the piano, and three different lip synch routines to a pop-country song where and each time the kids couldn’t _quite_ tamper down on the excitement of screaming _It’s a love story, baby just say yes._ Finstock twisted in his seat, camera on but not recording, and whispered to Mel.

“If Stiles does that song, he’s losing his radio station privileges for the next month.”

Mel snorted and hit his arm.

_“Stop,_ I can’t laugh.” She sank in her seat, whispering _sorry_ at annoyed parents. She scooted forward, almost hitting their heads together before she recentered her balance. “I think whatever they’re doing is going to be a lot more… interpretive? I wasn’t allowed to see their practice sessions in Scott’s room, but it sounded like… a lot of jumping around.” While some kids were bouncing around to Smash Mouth, Mel’s eyebrows pushed together, worry lines appearing on her forehead. “I hope it’s not _too_ strenuous on Scott. He’s got asthma.”

Finstock rolled his shoulders, ignoring the glares from other parents.

“Stiles knows, right?” Mel nodded. “Then he’ll be fine. Stiles takes that shit into consideration.”

Stiles talked about the games him and Scott would play on the playground and the elaborate rules that Stiles created so that him and Scott were even. Finstock remembered shaking his head while he wiped down equipment, Stiles ducking between his arms and legs when he thought Finstock wasn’t paying enough attention. He rattled off rules, regulations, and handicaps that Finstock tried poking holes into and Stiles wouldn’t budge an inch.

_“What a kid,”_ Finstock remembered shaking his head, turning off the back lights as Jordan pulled on his backpack. _“I don’t know where he gets all that stuff from, customizing the rules like that for some kid.”_ Jordan shot Finstock a look like he was more of a nut than usual. _“What?”_

Jordan rolled his eyes.

_“He copied you. It’s the same speech you give all the new clients, telling them that it’s not about what they see other people do, it’s about what they’re **able** to do. That’s all you, boss.”_

Familiar electric guitar plugs followed by a deep base made Finstock straighten up. It was a song he knew, always played on his dad’s record player. He pressed RECORD and he heard Mel exhale with a confused _“wait… I know this song.”_

Mel’s kid was the only one visible on the stage when the bright lights kicked on.

He was dressed in black robes, a big witch’s hat on his head, smears of green makeup and warts clumsily applied. He was standing on a small ladder above a giant cauldron cut-out. A quiet _whoosh_ was the precursor to fog sputtering above the cardboard top. The murmur from other parents either struggling to remember the tune or wondering why they weren’t hearing another bland pop song almost drowned out the _When I look out my window_ that made Finstock grin.

Scott waved his hands, the smoke swirling around his long black sleeves.

Finstock slid into the aisle so he could get a clear shot that wasn’t blocked by parents turning to each other as Scott raised his arms every _strange,_ shaking them as more fog bellowed out from behind the cauldron.

Stiles didn’t spring out from behind the cauldron until the first _season of the witch._

Some of the younger kids in the audience screamed. A few mothers covered their children’s eyes. Mel gasped, and Finstock grinned.

Stiles had painted his face white with red circles on his cheeks, and black over his eyelids that bled into stripes up his forehead. He had on his white singlet and had painted the rest of his arms and legs white with red stripes in the middle of his arms and legs.

What followed was… interpretive dance directed by a nine year old. Scott had a make-believe struggle, and Stiles used the move Finstock showed him last year.

Finstock called it _The Exorcist,_ using the full body equivalent of sleight-of-hand, so it looked like Stiles was trying to pull himself away, but some force was dragging his legs in the opposite direction. Really, it was the illusion of struggle that sold it, and judging by the shrieks from little kids, it _worked._

As the psychedelic rock song went on, a struggle between a witch and a summoned creature played on stage. Stiles struggled, Scott kept him reigned in, and then—

Scott lifted his right hand up, and Stiles mirrored the action with cartoonish reluctance. The song rolled on, and so did Scott and Stiles mimicking each other, until the song was cut off before it could finish. The teacher who’d been monotonously introducing each performance looked significantly more awake.

“Um,” the microphone shrieked when the man tapped it. “Everyone give a round of applause for Stiles and Scott.”

Scott and Stiles bowed to silence, and Finstock dropped the camera so he could stick two fingers in his mouth, whistling as loud as he could. It was enough to get a few confused claps, that were backed by Mel quickly standing up, clapping properly. He caught a glimpse of Stiles’s grin before he was herded off stage by the host.

Finstock sank back into his chair, leg jumping as he sat through three more acts until it was finally over. The moment the curtains began to close, Mel’s hands were pulling Finstock to his feet and back to the auditorium doors.

Children were running, a myriad of sneakers squeaking along tile, and Finstock found himself bending his knees with the rest of the parents. He didn’t care that white paint smeared on his stubbly cheek, he didn’t care that Stiles skimmed his fist along the tip of Finstock’s nose in his excitement to turn to Scott, and he didn’t care that the cold air bit through his clothes when he used his back to push through the glass doors.

“— to the gym right, Bobby?”

Small fingers tugged on Finstock’s jeans, gently prying himself out of his own head.

“What’s the matter, punk?”

Stiles rolled his eyes.

“I _said,_ can Scott come over to the gym after school with me? If he wants to.”

Stiles shot a quick look over to a hopeful Scott.

“Yeah.” Finstock shrugged and rustled Scott’s hair. “Sure, you’re welcome any time. As long as you have your mom’s permission.”

An ecstatic _yes_ punctuated a sharp high five between Stiles and Scott. The _crack_ echoed across the parking lot and Stiles shook his hand when he pulled it back.

Four years ago, Finstock would have never imagined that he’d be happy freezing his ass off in a parking lot with a child smearing paint all over his hands before wiping it down Finstock’s shirt with shrieking giggles.

Finstock growled, over the top and cartoonish, as he called Stiles a slew of his favorite nicknames while he chased him around the truck. _Smartass, Spiderbrat, punk_ were followed by laughter, from a kid and a retired ballerina.

::::

Finstock had an old truck, the kind where there was no middle divider from driver and passenger seat, just one long cushion. Stiles always sat next to Finstock, taking care not to get in the way of the stick shift as he played back his routine on the camera. Within a minute, his cheek squished against Finstock’s arm, his breaths shallow and his eyes closed.

The radio was off, the camera was closed and in Stiles’s lap, and the road was winding and dark ahead of them.

It was never long enough before Finstock had to take the gravelly turn down Stiles’s street, rolling to a stop next to his mailbox, with chipped bright blue and yellow paint with handprints pressed on the sides. If Finstock had to guess from the sizes of the prints, he’d put money that Stiles and his mother painted it when he was young.

He turned off the truck and carefully gathered Stiles into his arms.

“Easy, buddy,” Stiles’s breath remained even, his arm slung around Finstock’s neck and his face pressed into his shoulder. “You’re home.”

“Five more minutes.”

Finstock smiled, walking down the gravel driveway, past overgrown flower bushes and an unfinished stone path that led to the front door. Finstock had only been inside three times, each one shorter than the last. Claudia would always invite him to stay for dinner, but the gaze from the Sheriff told him to make an excuse to leave. He tightened his grip around Stiles as he knocked twice.

The Sheriff opened the door immediately.

“Oh geez,” Finstock jumped, “you scared the shit out of me.” The Sheriff grimaced, a thin twist of his lips. He waited for him to say something but all he got was sour silence. Finstock handed him the camera first, which the Sheriff put on a side table. “He did a really good job. It was a dance piece, I think he was inspired by this one performance I showed him, it’s famous for—” He stopped talking the moment he saw the Sheriff’s eyes glaze over. “Nevermind. Here.” He handed Stiles over, his skin feeling raw and exposed. “Goodnight, Sheriff.”

Cold settled under his skin by the time he got home.

He rinsed out his thermos and stuck some leftover pizza in the microwave. He kicked off his shoes and pants, slipping on his ratty robe. Magnets held up competition schedules, the ones with big trophies circled in pink, and qualifiers circled in yellow. Medals lined his walls from competitions, and he had a catalogue from IKEA for glass cases.

_“Mom likes the big trophies,”_ Stiles said when he came over with his backpack weighed down with his medals. _“Dad doesn’t know what to do with the medals and they won’t fit my drawers anymore.”_

He thumbed through the catalogue as he sank his teeth into greasy cheese. He’d look into getting a proper case next week.

Finstock slipped a VHS in from the library that he’d have to return in two days, pressing rewind. Once it stopped whirring, he pressed play and walked into his bedroom as Stravinsky’s beautifully uncomfortable music filled his tiny trailer. He rubbed his shoulders down with cream, pulled on an old shirt from his dance troupe days, and sighed back into his robe.

It was easy to shut off the lights, to grab the quilt off the back of the couch and drag it over his body. He propped pillows behind his back as he watched a performance of _The Rite of Spring._

_“What’s a riot?”_

Stiles would have to stay over some nights, whether it was because a bully left too much of a mark on his face, or if his mother had a late night hospital stay. Pizza and movies were a tradition.

A few months ago, Finstock had rented _The Rite of Spring._ Stiles hogged the blanket, laughing when Finstock yanked on it with a _learn to share, little shit._ Finstock pressed _PLAY_ on the remote as Stiles turned off the light.

_“It’s when a bunch of people go nuts over something. Usually property damage is involved. Sometimes it’s a good kind of nuts, sometimes it’s a bad kind of nuts.”_ The curtains opened to dancers dressed in archaic clothing with red and white face paint. _“It premiered in 1913 and people had never seen ballet do something like this before, so they freaked.”_

Stiles’s boney shoulder pressed against Finstock’s.

_“Was it a bad dance?”_

_“Nah.”_ Finstock eased back into the couch, lifting his arm up and Stiles sliding under, cold feet and all. _“It was something people weren’t expecting, but that doesn’t mean it’s bad.”_

Finstock sat alone on his couch, his feet cold and his mouth sour. Fuzzy figures danced on his television screen.

As strings grew louder and the ballerinas high-stepped faster, Finstock’s throat tightened to an unbearable degree. He grabbed the whiskey bottle on his coffee table unscrewed the cap moments before the glass bumped against his teeth.

Amber liquid numbed his throat and if he drank fast enough, he could pretend he didn’t feel wet trails streaking down his cheeks.

::::

“Okay, I’ve got my suitcase packed, I have my phone, keys, wallet, all the paperwork is in the yellow folder, I have postcards for Evelyn and… and what am I forgetting?” Finstock patted himself down, hitting harder and harder like that would shake something loose from his dumbass brain. Jordan stared at Finstock with the kind of impatience that only people who worked retail could achieve. _“Keys!_ Gym keys, shit—”

“Already got them.” Jordan jingled them in front of Finstock’s nose. “I’ve got your emergency binder, the contacts for all the maintenance places, and your cell. You’re _fine.”_

Finstock nodded, a jerking motion that settled the angry bees in his skull as he settled his hands on his hips.

“Yeah. Sure. Fine. Whatever. I’ll be back here,” he pointed to the ground, “in three days, unless something catastrophic happens.”

Jordan saluted as the Sheriff’s cruiser pulled into the lot.

“I’ll be here. Raking in extra cash during winter break before school starts back up.”

Finstock pulled Jordan into a hug before he could overthink it, giving him one pat on the back. Jordan’s mouth was twisted into an odd mixture of surprise and embarrassment.

“Take care of the gym. If it burns down, I _will_ find you.”

Jordan rolled his eyes, pink blotting his cheeks.

“Yeah, I’ll miss you too, Finstock.”

“Bobby!” Stiles’s sneakers dug into the gravel, making him slip a little bit. Finstock reached out to catch him. “Oh man,” He twisted in Finstock’s grasp to watch his father’s car roll out of the parking lot. “I think I forgot my toothbrush.”

“I packed a spare.” Finstock replied, ignoring Jordan’s smirk. “We can get breakfast on the road.” Jordan helped them throw their bags behind the truck’s seats and Finstock helped boost Stiles up, he was still a little too short to just jump in the truck. He fastened Stiles’s seatbelt and winked at him. “I’m leaving Jordan in charge of the gym. How badly do you think he’s gonna fuck up?”

Jordan flipped them both off, not managing to keep the smile off his face as Stiles leaned out of the window and waved.

“You know,” Finstock cranked the heat when he heard Stiles’s chattering teeth, “I was twenty-two when I went on my first road trip, and look at you. Barely nine and you’re out on the open road.”

“I turned nine at the end of August!” Stiles fiddled with the radio, eyes narrowed as he clicked channel by channel, navigating through static and grimacing when they came across a loud preacher station. He quickly turned the dial until he settled on classic rock. “What did you get for Christmas?”

“Hm?”

Finstock pulled onto the highway, heading north just as the sun rose above the horizon. Stiles handed him his shades.

“Christmas. You know, presents? Milk and cookies?”

Stiles ducked away from Finstock’s flicking fingers.

“Yeah, I’ve heard of it, punk. What about it?”

Stiles sighed, all over-dramatic the way kids were, like Finstock was a massive inconvenience to his personal time and space. His lips quirked up at the sides. It always gave him away.

_“Presents,_ what presents did you get?”

Finstock drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.

“I got that case I showed you, in the catalogue. For New Years I’m going to put the pins in while I watch the ball drop.” He had it all set up in the living room already, right by the television. He was going to have to put the silver and bronze medals in the drawers, the gold would be reserved for the glass case top. “What about you?”

“Oh. Um.” Stiles shrugged. “Books. Mom got me a gymnastics movie. But it’s real-life stuff. What’s that called?”

“A documentary.”

They were headed to Seattle, it would take the whole day and by the time they got to the hotel it was just a matter of Finstock giving the front desk his card, getting a key, and falling into bed. Stiles had gotten through state championships, and now it was time for a coastal competition.

He wasn’t sure if he’d ever get used to the circuit, to the hungry eyes of parents, eyeing their own children like starving wolves presented with a fresh carcass. Kids that were jumping at the short _barks_ from their coaches, kids that shouldn’t have that haunted look before they were thirty. Finstock always had to swallow the guilty stab in his stomach when kids would do a double-take at his _“just do whatever out there, we’ll get pizza after,”_ when it was Stiles’s turn.

While kids were doing stretches, him and Stiles would dance, just to their own goofy whistles. It loosened Stiles up, got him smiling and any nerves he had were forgotten. The kid hung off Finstock’s every word, every ridiculous _no, you gotta fling your arm out like this, all right,_ like it was a professional routine. He was the only coach who _laughed._

Evelyn had given them the rundown of the coastal circuit and the prizes involved. Finstock had been studying the fees while Stiles had his eyes on the trophies. _This is for third place?_ He pointed at a massive bronze trophy that would have his name engraved on it. _I want to do this one!_

Evelyn told Finstock _several_ times that it was very odd to select competitions purely based on whether or not Stiles liked the medals and trophies.

_Yeah well,_ Finstock shrugged as they watched Stiles’s name remain on top of the leaderboard at the last competition, _if it works for him it works for me._

“So,” Stiles spoke after bobbing his head to the radio for an hour, “my dad says mom can’t really… stay up late for New Years and Scott goes to bed early and…” Stiles shrugged. “I can help. With the pins.”

Finstock snuck a look over at Stiles.

“You want to help me build furniture?”

Stiles crossed his arms.

“I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it.”

Yet _another_ saying he’d picked up from Finstock. He grinned, pumping the gas as traffic eased up, open road stretching before them for miles.

“You got it. Sure. We’ll go wild, have a real fucking party constructing your medal case.” Stiles whooped as the song changed, rolling down the window only to yelp _holy shit it’s fucking cold_ and make Finstock laugh even harder. “You’re such a fucking punk. I don’t know if they give out trophies to punks.”

Stiles snorted.

“They do if they get first place.”

Finstock was helpless against the bubbling mirth in his stomach, incredulous glee that tickled the back of his teeth until it was pouring out of his mouth. He cackled, his throat cracking and his eyes squeezing into thin slits. He held out his hand and Stiles slapped his palm, his grin just as wide.

::::

Claudia Stilinski knew since she was a little girl that she wanted to be a mother. She was the first to hold any new baby in the family, and her aunts and uncles would coo over the picture she made, a little girl taking such sweet care of a baby. _You want to be a mom, Claudia,_ her mother would ask, and the answer was always the same. _Yee-up._

New Year’s Eve rolled around and Claudia woke up early. The moment she sat up, Noah stirred and began to pull his arm under him, to push up and out of bed.

“Stay,” Claudia whispered, gently pushing his shoulder, “I got it.”

Noah murmured, then sank back into bed. _Must have been a late night,_ Claudia thought with a frown. She _hoped_ it was work and not Stiles coming home late from a long car ride after a competition. She shuffled down the hall, peeking into Stiles’s room. He was passed out above the covers, his one arm dangling over the bed and the other reaching for his pillow, like he’d fallen asleep before he could manage to pull it under his head.

She planned to open the door slowly so it didn’t creak, to pull some blankets over him, maybe fix the pillow, but then she caught sight of the giant gold trophy.

Faint glimmers of teal glittered in elegant curves of gold, etchings of twinkling stars that shot upwards, around a male figure with a bowed back, mounted on stained wood with a gold plaque.

**West Coast Junior Division Champion: Stiles Stilinski**

Claudia gasped. She couldn’t help it. Stiles jerked awake, turning over and rubbing his eyes.

“Mom?”

Stiles slid off the bed, his legs shaking because he wasn’t really awake yet. Stiles stumbled, but Claudia caught him, squeezing him tight, feeling how his breaths deepened.

“Good morning, sweetheart. Late night?”

Stiles pulled back, eyes bright.

“Yeah, I think? But _look,_ mom. I got first place!” He wiped a bit of drool off his mouth with the back of his hand, gesturing toward the shimmering trophy with the other. “It’s real pretty, right?”

“It’s _beautiful,_ Stiles.” She slung her arm around him, wishing she could hold him up on her hip without getting winded. “Come on, let’s put it downstairs with the other ones.”

Being a parent was not about making another copy of yourself. When she was in college, she read all the books she could on developmental psychology, the wonders of nature versus nurture, and all the tiny, unnoticeable pieces that would go into shaping a personality.

They walked down the stairs, Stiles holding the trophy with both hands. His footsteps were quiet over the living room carpet, by shelf next to the sliding glass doors that led out the garden. Other trophies were displayed there, so that when the sun set they’d send a thousand rays across the walls. Stiles held out the trophy to her.

“I can’t reach.”

Claudia slid it next to the previous trophy, a silver arcing symbol with leaves etched around the base.

“There.” She kissed his temple. “Perfect.”

She was so excited to see Stiles grow, how his eyes would track over books, how he developed tastes for certain foods and music. The closer she looked… the more she started to notice oddities, and the more she wondered _where_ Stiles had acquired them.

While kids shouldn’t be clones of their parents, it was inevitable that physical mannerisms and expressions would be passed down the line.

Not all kids had mothers who were constantly worried about their heart failing.

_Your health is the most important thing to me,_ Noah would say late at night, when Claudia would let tears slip down her cheeks because she wanted to be a mother, she wanted to be a mother so _badly_ and she was worried that… she wasn’t being _enough._ When she was little she would take her imaginary children to museums, parks, and plays. She’d run with them down hills, collect flowers for hours in the woods, and catch frogs at the river.

She could never do any of that with Stiles.

_Claudia, he’s fine,_ Noah insisted, wiping at her eyes, _I promise, he’s fine._

It was little things at first.

A tilt of his head that was like a whole body sigh, the way he’d kick his legs out on the carpet when he did his homework, and how he’d run his tongue over his teeth after a long sip of orange juice.

His vocabulary expanded, phrases she _knew_ Noah didn’t use, and language _neither_ of them would use around him would suddenly fall out of his mouth. She remembered the first morning they’d been watering tomatoes, inspecting their leaves, when Stiles cheerily flashed her a thumbs up when no damage was found.

_Same shit different day, mom!_

Winter break was a time spent in pajamas. Stiles showed her the video of his event, and Claudia needed to squeeze him, her breath getting short and hollow in her lungs because…

Stiles grinned on the mat.

He smiled around her, but… the grin he wore before he took off running was wild, crooked, and strange. _It looks good on him,_ Claudia thought as he twisted like gravity meant nothing.

Watching his routines was seeing a side to her son she never witnessed in person. A breathless grin before elaborate ballet inspired stances, before running into handsprings, flips, splits, and rolls that always stole her breath.

Stiles nodded off halfway through, his head tilted back and hitting the couch.

His feet landed hard on the mat, his arms out and then he bowed. Stiles turned, looking at the camera with a smile that betrayed his nerves, big brown eyes wide and his cheeks pink. The camera jittered, and _“You did fucking great—”_ cracked through the camcorder’s speakers before the video ended.

Stiles began to snore, his head tilted back at an uncomfortable angle. Claudia pulled a blanket up to his chin, easing his head to the side so his neck wouldn’t hurt. She brushed her fingers over his forehead.

_I love you,_ she thought with white-knuckled conviction, _I hope you know that I love you._

She started coffee, and the smell of bacon sizzling on the ban tempted Stiles awake, and Noah came down the stairs, handsome even first thing in the morning without coffee. He kissed her cheek and insisted on taking over breakfast. Stiles chattered excitedly about making a gift for someone, because no one gave them a present for Christmas and _who gets their own present, that’s not a present that’s just shopping,_ but he glanced over Claudia’s shoulder, where Noah was, before he abruptly stopped talking.

Eventually, the doorbell rang. Stiles rushed down from his room as Noah whispered, “I got someone to watch him tonight.” _So you can take it easy,_ he didn’t say. He answered the door and Stiles ran out of the door with a joyous, “bye, mom, love you, mom!”

She glanced down the hall in time to see Bobby Finstock’s back. She’d met him a few times, very briefly, he never seemed to be able to stay for longer than a few minutes. He was loud, but whenever he stepped foot into their house, he always hunched to make himself smaller. He wasn’t quick to smile, and when Claudia shook his hand, she remembered he had smokey smell to him, something familiar but she struggled to place.

On New Year’s Eve, she watched her son elbow the man, his laughter finally ringing loud the moment he was outside.

Bobby Finstock turned, just enough that Claudia could see the swell of his cheek, the setting sun making his teeth shine as a shadow fell across his face. He grinned at Stiles, and the expression echoed deep in Claudia’s chest. It was wild, crooked, and a little strange.

_Oh,_ Claudia thought as the door swung shut.

::::

Flyers went up for the Spring Formal in March, and it was all anyone in the sixth grade could talk about. Who was going to pair up? Who would go alone? Would anyone work up the nerve to get their first kiss?

“I don’t know,” Stiles stretched as he tucked his backpack between his feet, “remember the last dance we went to? All the boys were on one side and all the girls were on the other. We just stared at each other all night and no one danced.”

He had three classes with Scott, and his least favorite was, by far, French. Stiles loved all his other classes, could get good grades without much studying, but something about foreign languages didn’t stick. He took out his notebook as Scott thumbed through notes.

“Yeah, but that was in fourth grade. We’re sixth graders now. It’s different.” Scott, ducked his head down low, his foot sliding across the aisle to nudge Stiles’s neaker. “You could ask Lydia.”

Stiles snorted, hating how his ears got hot.

“Ew, no way. ‘Sides,” Mrs. Hanifan closed the door as Stiles shoved Scott’s shoulder, “if I go with her, how am I going to go with _you?”_

Scott grinned and held out his hand. Stiles immediately slapped a stinging high-five on it before Mrs. Hanifan cleared her throat.

“Class has started, everyone settle down.” Mrs. Hanifan peered from behind her thick glasses. “Quizzes have been graded.”

Stiles slouched in his seat, dreading every _click_ of Mrs. Hanifan’s heel as she worked her way down the rows. He twisted in his seat, holding out his hand to take his quiz. The red circled sixty-eight made his heart stutter in his chest.

“Shit,” Stiles scowled, not even thinking as his palm slapped his quiz down on his desk, turned over so no one could see his grade. “This is why I drink.” Scott flashed him a secretive smile, moments before Mrs. Hanifan’s heels stopped clicking. He glanced up to see her wide eyes, her lips pulled thin in a frown. “What? Oh,” Stiles winced, “sorry, I cursed. I wasn’t paying attention, it won’t happen again.”

For once, he didn’t get in trouble for cursing. Mrs. Hanifan insisted _you’re not in trouble, Stiles,_ as she called down to the office and had a counsellor collect Stiles with a gentle but firm hand on his shoulder.

It sure _felt_ like he was in trouble when he had to take all his bags out from under his desk, barely able to glance at Scott before he was ushered out of the classroom.

“I said I was sorry for swearing.” Stiles had gotten two detentions, both for swearing. The main office, where the rooms behind the reception desk were always closed, was for detention. Counsellors were… well, Stiles wasn’t _sure_ what they were for, but if they were in the main office it couldn’t be anything good. “I’ll be more careful.”

“That’s not why you’re here,” Mr. Cafferty _call me Gill_ wrung his hands, “though, yes, please watch your language while you’re in school.”

Stiles crossed his arms.

“Okay. Why am I here if I’m not in trouble?”

He hated it when people tried to bullshit him, as Bobby would say. Adults seemed to think all kids were idiots and couldn’t plainly see when someone was lying to them. _“He’s an eleven year old, not a lobotomy patient,”_ Bobby had sneered during a competition on more than one occasion.

“It’s about what you said in Mrs. Hanifan’s class—”

“I _said_ I was sorry about swearing, if you’re not going to give me a detention, can I please go back—”

“No, Stiles. It’s what you said after that.”

“What?” Stiles drew back. “This is why I drink? I don’t— it’s a dumb joke. It’s just something you say when something fu— messes up.” Stiles curled his arms tighter around himself, hoping it would chase away the cold prickling sensation that grew heavier in his stomach. “It’s no big deal.”

Stiles knew he wasn’t stupid, but he still hated _feeling_ stupid. The way Gill looked at him, with a tight frown and a tilted head like, _oh you didn’t know_ that felt like salt being ground into a wound.

“Stiles,” Gill sighed the same way his father would when Stiles asked too many questions.

He didn’t go back to French class. He wasn’t allowed to go to any of his classes that day.

He was still in Gill’s office when school ended, and his phone buzzed. _Where are you_ from Bobby, and Stiles quickly responded _still at school. Won’t be at the gym today._

The door was cracked open, Gill speaking in hushed whispers with his dad. After five minutes, Stiles watched the clock, there was a sharp knock on the door. He turned in the chair and his father’s jaw was tight.

“Let’s go, Stiles.”

Five minutes was nothing compared to the interrogation he was put through. He had to define what alcohol consumption he’d witnessed _(beer and bourbon)_ , who were the people who drank alcohol _(my dad, at dinner and after mom goes to bed)_ , did he ever taste it _(no),_ what did his father do when he drank _(I don’t know… nothing?)._ Stiles was asked the same series of questions in a million different ways for hours.

His dad only got five minutes.

The steering wheel creaked under his father’s hands after thirty seconds of silence.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles said because it felt like he should apologize from the way his father was breathing, from how he wasn’t _looking_ at Stiles. “It was just a joke. It didn’t mean anything.”

“Stiles,” his dad’s teeth cut across his name like rusty scissors. “Stiles, that was _humiliating._ Mr. Cafferty offered me a reference for a psychologist and an… _AA group._ Do you have any idea what would happen if people thought their Sheriff was a drunk?”

“I didn’t say that!” Stiles’s voice cracked, “I didn’t say that, I swear. He just asked what I saw and— and it was a joke!”

His dad took the sharp turn onto their street, gravel crunching under the tires.

“Well, it’s not _funny,_ Stiles. Don’t say things like that anymore.”

_Things like what,_ Stiles wanted to scream. _What’s AA? All I did was answer the questions he asked me, was I not supposed to do that? How am I supposed to know what I should and shouldn’t have said?_ All that came out of his mouth was a hitched breath before tears rolled down his cheeks.

His dad turned off the car.

“Don’t come in until you’ve stopped crying. Your mother can’t see you like that.”

“Yeah,” Stiles hiccuped, feeling the ugliest he’d ever been. “You can't either.”

His father slammed the door.

_“Easy does it,”_ Bobby would say whenever nerves got the best of Stiles, or when, randomly, it would get too hard to breathe when nebulous worries crawled down his throat. _“Take it slow,”_ he’d hug Stiles, his chest against Stiles’s back and his palms over Stiles’s lungs. _“Breathe with me, punk. In,”_ Bobby would breathe in, _“and out.”_

Bobby wasn’t with Stiles.

He was all alone, and he only had three minutes before he had to be ready to see his mom.

::::

Stiles couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Some stupid joke, one that Bobby made all the time. The more Stiles thought about it, the more Stiles realized how much he’d… missed. When he was little, he tried to drink out of Bobby’s thermos, just to make fun of him, to annoy him because… because that’s what Stiles did when he wanted to make Bobby laugh.

It was the only time Bobby had ever raised his voice. The _“don’t drink that!”_ made Stiles reel back, and Bobby quickly continued, _“It tastes like shit, Stiles. Coffee is disgusting and only adults should drink it. You want some juice?”_ Stiles had written it off as… Bobby telling him the truth. Mom had let him try coffee once and it really did taste awful.

Bobby walked a lot. He didn’t mind walking two miles to the grocery store. Sometimes he’d even walk to Stiles’s house if it was late at night and Stiles forgot something at the gym. Stiles figured he was a dancer and he liked walking.

He never thought that… maybe it was because, at that moment in time, Bobby _couldn’t_ drive.

After his mom went to sleep after the “joke incident,” his dad sat him down and explained that what he drinks and why he drinks is his business. _“It’s not easy being a Sheriff, a father, and making sure your mother stays healthy.”_ His grip was tight on Stiles’s arm. _“It’s my business, Stiles.”_

His own father thought he was stupid because he thought Stiles _wouldn’t_ understand what he was actually saying.

_I drink because of you._

Everyone was excited about the upcoming dance, and Stiles couldn’t get rid of the writhing, crawling sensation in his stomach. Every night his dad shot him a _look_ as he poured himself another glass once his mom went to bed. Every night, Stiles ignored his dad’s stare. Every night, he’d pretend to be stupid.

“Geez, kid,” Bobby ran his hands across Stiles’s cheek. “Are you eating enough?”

“Yeah.” Stiles shrugged. “I think so.”

He stretched with Bobby on the mat, eager to get in the air. The awful fluttering in his stomach would vanish as long as he was in the air. Stiles rushed it, not caring about proper movements or making sure his muscles were ready.

He got through three songs before his left leg seized. He fell, landing hard on his back and he rolled onto his side, sucking in air.

“Jesus Christ,” Bobby was immediately by his side, gently rolling him over. “What happened? Are you all right?”

Stiles nodded, gesturing to his left leg.

“It just froze. I fell.”

“No shit you fell, I _saw_ you fall. Come on,” Bobby talked rough, yet he was always careful when he helped Stiles sit up. He ran his fingers over the frozen muscle. “Yup. Cramp. You need more potassium. _Greenberg!”_ Greenberg was the new Jordan. Stiles missed Jordan. “Go into my office and see if I have any bananas in there.”

Stiles hissed as Bobby massaged the muscles. When he paused, Stiles shook his head, a silent _it’s okay._

“Why a banana?”

“Potassium. Which is what you,” he flicked Stiles’s nose, “need.” Greenberg came back with an entire fruit bowl. Bobby glared at it. “Thanks, hotshot. Now, go see if anyone needs help with the machines.” Bobby shook his head. “Fuckin’ weirdo. Just _one_ banana, that’s all I wanted and what I got is a cornucopia of scurvy prevention. Here,” he shoved a banana into Stiles’s hand. “Eat this.”

_Is drinking bad,_ Stiles wanted to ask. _Why do people do it?_ It hurt, but the more Bobby worked the muscle, the better it felt. Stiles kept chewing, glad that bananas still tasted good to him. Food at his house, even if it was his favorite, was starting to lose its taste. _Am I a bad person if I’m the reason my father drinks after dinner?_

“God,” Finstock sat back on his heels, dragging his hands down his face. “You gave me a fucking heart attack.” His shoulders shuddered, his hands still covering his eyes. “This,” Bobby heaved in air, “is why I drink.”

Mushy banana turned into sour clay.

“What did you say?”

Stiles actually got the question out, but chewed-up banana fell out of his mouth and Bobby grimaced.

“Oh, _gross,_ Stiles. Come on, I think I’ve got a spare shirt in the back.” He pulled Stiles to his feet. “How’s the leg feel.”

“Good.” Stiles felt like his voice was coming out of a long hallway, distant and muffled. “Hurts a little but it’s a lot better.”

“Next time we’re not rushing stretches, you’re ready when I _say_ you’re ready, punk.” Bobby offered up a half-smile, worry still drawing his brows tight, wrinkling his forehead. “Are you all right?”

_He keeps the alcohol in his thermos._ Bobby had it clutched in his hand, still capped. _He keeps the alcohol in his thermos and he’s been drinking from it for as long as I’ve known him._

Stiles managed a nod.

There were no more gymnastics that day, which was fine. He felt too heavy to manage a cartwheel. Bobby talked like he usually did, laughed like he usually did, and it only made Stiles heavier. _How long has he been drinking because of me?_ Stiles knew the answer. He remembered Finstock spitting up coffee on the first day his dad had dropped him off.

“Stiles,” fingers dragged through his hair, Bobby’s palm warm against the back of his skull. “What’s going on? You’ve been out of it all day.”

They sat on the curb shoulder-to-shoulder like they always did. Stiles wanted it to _feel_ the way it used to, he wanted to go back in time, to never have made that joke… to never… find out what it really meant.

“Yeah,” Stiles lied, “I think I just don’t feel well.”

Bobby stared at him with narrowed eyes, Stiles’s heart beating faster until he finally looked away, his arm pulling Stiles closer.

“All right. Take it easy. Eat something when you feel up to it, no kid should have cheekbones that can cut my fucking hands.” He walked Stiles to the car that night, opening the door for him as his dad in the driver’s seat. “Feel better, all right? Call me if you need anything.”

“Okay,” Stiles said instead of _I’m sorry._

::::

The dance was supposed to be _fun_.

The dance was… was the reason Stiles gave to Finstock when he went over to Scott’s house after school every day for two weeks. They both got button-up shirts and wore ties that Stiles’s dad tied for them. Their moms took pictures.

His mom was so happy.

When she hugged him, she whispered, “You’re going to have such a good time.”

His dad drove them to the school, Scott was fussing with his tie when he got out, and Stiles leaned back in the window.

“Remember, it ends at eight. It will be after dinner, but… it ends at eight.”

His father’s lips were pulled like a tight string.

“I know.”

_Please show up. Please remember._

The gymnasium had been decorated with balloons and streamers. Their English teacher, Mr. Chandler, was the DJ. Mrs. Hanifan was a chaperone, and Vice Principal Haug stood at the back, arms crossed, but Stiles _swore_ he saw him crack a smile a few times during the night. There were small bags of chips and a _ton_ of soda.

It was actually...pretty fun. Boys and girls only remained on opposite sides of the gym for two songs, but then Mr. Chandler put on Rihanna and everyone got over their embarrassment. Even Scott, who constantly worried about losing his breath, was laughing as Stiles spun him around, he even saw Scott teaching a girl how to dance, just the way Stiles showed him. Stiles felt the lightest he had in the past two weeks. It was almost like being in the air.

“I can’t wait for the next dance,” Scott’s cheeks were pink, “I asked the other kids, and they said that the big kids get a winter formal in eighth grade.” There was a long line of cars and it was easy to spot Mel’s. She kissed Stiles’s cheek and Scott leaned out of the car for one last hug. “We’ll go again and it will be so much fun, right, Stiles?”

“Yeah,” Stiles grinned and he _meant it,_ he had missed the way smiling felt on his face. “It’s gonna be fucking great.” Bubbly happiness was like listening to his favorite song, spinning in place on the mats. It made him dizzy, giggly, and bright. He met Mel’s raised eyebrow and small smile without the usual twinge of _be quiet, be polite, be normal._ “Sorry, Mel.”

Mel laughed.

“You’re fine, Stiles. It’s a part of your charm. Get home safe, okay?”

Stiles waved as they drove off, and he went back up the stone steps to the school. He stood with other kids looking for their cars, and one-by-one they all left… until it was just Stiles and Vice Principal Haug.

Chilly spring wind blew through leaves. Stiles kept his eyes forward, ears straining for a _hint_ of the cruiser's engines. After three minutes of nothing, a heavy hand fell on Stiles’s shoulder.

“Stilinski,” Haug had a deep voice and big, dark bags under his eyes. There were rumors that he turned down a Secret Service job offer to be a Vice Principal in Beacon Hills Elementary. “Call your folks.”

“Yeah.” Stiles fumbled for his phone. “S-Sure.”

The thing was, he _couldn’t_ call his dad. The last two weeks, if his father forgot, Mel could drive him and when Stiles got inside he saw his father hunched over a glass, the bourbon bottle significantly lower than before. Maybe his dad forgot… or maybe his father _couldn’t_ come, and… and even if Stiles _did_ call, it wouldn’t change the fact that his dad wouldn’t be able to drive.

_“Do you have any idea what would happen if people thought their Sheriff was a drunk?”_

Stiles held his phone to his ear. It rang twice.

_“Hey.”_ He heard a television in the background being turned down to a dull murmur, the familiar noise of Bobby getting off his couch made Stiles ache. _“What’s going on?”_

“I’m at the dance and,” Stiles forced a laugh, “no, dad, it didn’t end at eight-thirty. It was over at eight, could you come get me? I’m at the gym entrance of the school.”

Bobby didn’t give Stiles time to worry, to plead with otherworldly forces to make sure Bobby _got it._ Stiles heard the squeak of a mattress, a door opening, and the jangle of keys.

_“Shit. Sure. Yeah, I’m on my way. See you soon, punk.”_

Stiles hung up and offered Haug a small smile.

“He messed up the times.”

In typical Vice Principal fashion, Haug didn’t react, staring off toward the horizon with a stony expression.

Stiles sat on the stone steps, knees drawn up to his chest. He watched his breaths leave him in cloudy puffs, he watched the tiny hairs rise on his arms as goosebumps dotted his skin. He rested his temple against the metal railing. He didn’t dare look back at Haug. The moment he did, he’d be asked questions he didn’t have the stomach to answer.

Delight bloomed in his chest when the familiar squeal of old brakes echoed across the lot. Stiles jumped up to his feet, a _“Thank you Mr. Haug,”_ shouted over his shoulder before he flew down the stairs, each step clacking his teeth together. His palm skimmed the hood before he zipped to the other side, opening the door and using his momentum to jump and pull himself in.

The smell of coffee, soap, and Bobby was so comforting Stiles could cry.

“All right,” Bobby turned like it was any other night. “You buckled in?” Stiles nodded. “Then we’re good to go.”

They pulled out of the school’s driveway. The hum of the truck, the squeak of the windows when Stiles rolled his down… it was so familiar and he’d missed it so much. _I make him drink,_ he thought, his entire body feeling like cracked glass. No matter how good it felt to be at the gym, to be with Bobby… _I make him drink._

Stiles curled in on himself, his shoulders rising up to his ears as the gross taste of ash returned to his mouth.

“Okay.” He jumped at Finstock’s strained voice. “Okay, that’s it. Hold on a second.”

He pulled over on the side of the road, into the dirt. Stiles scrambled to get a grip on the window as the truck rocked to a stop. Bobby left the keys in the ignition, twisted so that only the radio and lights were on. He got out of the truck.

“Bobby?” Stiles opened the door, undoing his seatbelt and hanging his legs out of the truck, not jumping down. Bobby came around to his side. “What’s going on?”

“Funny, that’s the question I was going to ask you.” Bobby leaned against the truck, giving Stiles space while not being too far away. “You can tell me anything, kid. You know that, right? If there’s… something going on, even if you think it’s weird or stupid, I _promise_ I can help you with it. Even if it’s school drama, I can do that.” Whenever his dad said things like _you can tell me anything,_ it never meant that. It meant _tell me what I expect to hear._ With his father, it meant _just tell me something so I can say I heard it._ “Stiles,” Bobby pulled Stiles’s hand away from his mouth, too late to save the gnawed bit of skin around his nails, “I’m here. I can help.”

Stiles was used to being a burden, a person to sigh at, to tell in a hushed voice to _calm down and behave._ He was used to being picked last for kickball. He was used to teachers asking him to keep his questions for after class because he was being a distraction.

_It’s just stupid school stuff,_ was Stiles’s first idea. _I don’t want to do gymnastics anymore_ was a possible lie that Stiles wasn’t sure he could actually say without crying. _It’s nothing_ was better. It worked on his dad, and so Stiles took a breath. Then his eyes flickered up to see the worry lines on Bobby’s forehead, how the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes became more pronounced.

“I make you drink.”

The shrieking nervousness that had been filling his head vanished for a few blissful seconds. For a sliver of time, Stiles was completely empty of feeling, his eyes wide, tears slipping down his cheeks but his breathing remarkably calm.

Bobby blinked hard, like he had a headache.

“What?” Stiles gave Bobby a _look._ “No, wipe that shit off your face. I’m serious. Tell me what you’re talking about.”

“I’m not fucking _stupid,_ Bobby.” Stiles hated how shrill his voice would get when he was upset, how it could crackle around a simple sentence, but once he got started he couldn’t stop. _“This is why I drink,_ you say that all the time, and you’ve said it when I’ve messed up or said something annoying or… you say it _all the time._ I know what it means, and I know you keep it in your thermos,” Bobby flinched at that, and it hurt, seeing the flicker of shame on Bobby’s face. “It’s my fault you’re drinking.” Stiles covered his eyes, his shoulders jumping in time with his uneven breaths. “I get it. Like, people drink when stuff is _too hard._ I get it. Dad does it. You do it. And… if I’m too much, I should stop coming over to the gym.”

_Then you’ll be happier._

Stiles couldn’t leave his parents even if it might make his dad feel better enough to stop drinking after dinner. But he could leave Bobby. Even if it meant never getting in the air again, Stiles could do it, if it meant Bobby would be better.

“Okay,” Stiles felt Bobby’s shuddered breath against his face. “Stiles,” he pulled at his hands, “look at me.” Stiles didn’t want to. His skin felt tingly and sensitive. “Stiles, please.”

Bobby was never a _please and thank you_ kind of guy. Stiles took his hands down, his eyes struggling to focus.

“I’m not stupid,” Stiles said instead of _don’t lie to me._

Bobby’s big hands cupped his face, his thumbs wiping over Stiles’s wet cheeks.

“I know.” He cracked a smile. “I know that. I haven’t been able to pull one over on your since you were five. I want you to listen to me. I have been drinking since before you were born. What you see me do every day, I’ve been doing that for decades. It has nothing to do with you. No bullshit.”

Stiles sighed, his breath still hitching around his exhales.

“But you said—”

“I know what I’ve said. It’s a shitty joke. Just a joke, Stiles, and I’m not going to make it again.” Bobby’s hands shook, but his smile brightened. “My bullshit,” he gestured to all of himself, “that’s all on me. That’s _never_ on you.”

Stiles hiccuped.

“Are you sure I’m not making it w-worse?”

Two strong arms pulled him close and Stiles pressed his face into Bobby’s shoulder.

“You’ve never made anything worse for me, Stiles. If anything, you’re making shit better.” It hurt too much to articulate, the disbelief that was obliterated by the fact that Bobby never bullshit him. Stiles shouldn’t have doubted Bobby, he shouldn’t have assumed that his father and Bobby behaved the same way. He knew better now, and it was a terrible relief. “Christ, I kept thinking of… awful stuff you could be going through or dealing with. I haven’t been able to fuckin’ sleep.”

Stiles hugged Bobby tighter.

“I missed you, Bobby.”

When Bobby pulled back, Stiles saw that his eyes were wet. He rubbed at his face with one hand, the other in Stiles’s hair, ruffling it the way he would during cool down stretches.

“Missed you too, punk. Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

Stiles buckled his seatbelt and Finstock closed the door once Stiles’s feet were back inside.

::::

Bobby’s couch was softer than corduroy, and harder than velvet. There were some seams that had to be resewn, some patches that covered holes. It sagged in places, and Stiles had to sit all the way on one side or else he’d roll toward the middle. It smelled like coffee, alcohol, and Bobby.

Stiles sat on the arm of the couch, dressed in pajamas from Bobby’s dance academy years. _They sure as shit don’t fit me anymore, but luckily the pants have a tie._ Bobby was on his cellphone, pacing around on the porch. Stiles knew he called his dad. He was too numb to feel fair, too giddy from being able to relax and taste food again. Pizza filled his stomach and _A New Hope_ played on Finstock’s tiny television.

The screen door shut with a _ker-whap._

“Your dad said you can stay the night if you want. If not, I can drive you home whenever.” Bobby sat on the other side of the couch, dragging the quilt off the back. “Just give me a heads up so I can make some coffee. Coffee-coffee. Non-alcoholic.”

Stiles moved so he was in the middle with Bobby, tucking his toes under the blanket.

“I wanna stay.”

Bobby twisted, his arm reaching over Stiles’s head to switch off the lamp.

“All right.”

Stiles tucked himself under Bobby’s arm, like he would when he was younger. Bobby hummed, and when Stiles pressed his ear to Bobby’s chest, he realized that their hearts were beating together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh thank you so much for your patience. I hope the chapter is worth it. Not going to lie, I was crying as I edited the last section. I’ve been going through a rough time with my family, and last week was the worst of it. It felt really good to get this all out there and just… it was therapeutic. 
> 
> I’m not sure when things are going to settle down… but I’m going to try and find a therapist to help me deal with it. If I’m slower with updates, that’s why but I’ll try to make them long and worth the wait. Bonus points to folks who pick up some song references! I love you guys, please let me know if you liked this chapter, or even if you didn’t like it. You guys really help keep me going when things get rough. Thanks again so much for believing in this story so much!
> 
> [_**High Risk, High Reward**_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17102477/chapters/41727242#workskin) also updated, if that tickles your fancy. ALSO, in November for my birthday I’m throwing a Finstock celebration event: [_**Finstock’s Fucked Up Long Weekend.**_](https://finstocksfuckeduplongweekend.tumblr.com/) If that sounds like something you’d be interested in participating in or just keeping an eye on it for the stuff people make for it, [_**give the side blog I created for it a follow!**_](https://finstocksfuckeduplongweekend.tumblr.com/)
> 
> The art is by [**the fantastic Liz**](https://eklixio.tumblr.com/), check out her page and her instagram, she’s amazing, and the year headers were made by me :) 
> 
> I’ll still be active on tumblr for the time being, but there are other ways to find me. [**Here**](http://mia6363.tumblr.com/about) you can see a little breakdown of other places to find me and the other things I do in relation to these fics (journals/behind the scenes, playlists, head canons). [**So click on over** ](http://mia6363.tumblr.com/about)to get the full rundown!


	3. Legal Guardian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Come on, Mel,” Stiles braved the light, squinting. “It’s my last night of freedom.” 
> 
> Mel laughed, loud and warm for the morning. Stiles couldn’t help but laugh with her, getting caught up in the bubbly feeling of happiness. She laughed the way his mom _used_ to laugh. Stiles wasn’t sure when it started, a guilt that gnawed away at his stomach because he _should_ have noticed, but at some point his mom had stopped laughing. Her smiles had waned, her patience for the garden had thinned. 
> 
> _She just needs more rest,_ his dad insisted. He’d been insisting that for Stiles’s entire life. 
> 
> “You’re training for the Olympics, not going to prison. Get up, I’m making pancakes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING for references to hate speech, I don’t actually type the words, but it’s referenced that slurs are shouted. Allusions to physical abuse. Verbal abuse. **ALL of these warnings are in regards to MR. LAHEY.**

Two calloused thumbs pressed into a worried forehead, firm pressure meant to smooth out stress. Press, drag from the center _out._ Breathing deep, going back, pressing, dragging out. He kept pressing until the lines were gone, until the kid’s shoulders were slack.

East coast humidity was brutal, it made venturing outside like swimming in a pool made out of sweat and bad breath. Air conditioning was a miracle, but when the competition was big, when it was _nationals,_ there weren’t enough vents and fans in the world to get rid of the heat. Stiles had it right when he complained that the gymnasiums smelled like farts, so they braved the humidity for as long as they could in the parking lot.

“You’ve got the routine down, punk, there’s no doubt in my mind about that. Let’s shake loose, all right? Same song, different dance.”

Stiles was getting tall and Finstock was starting to notice the various aches in his own body. Time served the young well, while it kicked in the knees of the old. Still, he moved faster than other men his age, and Finstock was used to not examining every minor pain. He took his fingers away from the kid’s forehead. Stiles opened his eyes, pupils adjusting to the sun. They both had iPods paused at the beginning of the same song.

“Three,” Finstock began.

“Two,” Stiles answered.

“One,” they hit PLAY together.

Dreamy jazz instruments were used to reconfigure pop into something more unique. He spun on the asphalt, between an empty parking space and the shitty rental car from the airport.

Stiles grinned, eyes half-lidded. When Jay-Z’s part came in, Stiles always picked more modern movements, while Finstock stuck to the dreamy ballet he was comfortable with. They mouthed the words together, grinning, giggling. It was their tradition before every competition, big or small. _Big now,_ Finstock thought before he could help himself, _fucking nationals._

As the song began to shift, Stiles and Finstock fell into synch. They’d danced to this song for the past few months, leaping in front of the mirrors back at Finstock’s gym. The last thirty seconds were always done in tandem, laughing, breathless, but most importantly, _happy—_

A loud car horn made them flinch.

Finstock reeled, losing his balance bad enough that his back hit the car. Stiles was younger, faster. His earbuds were already out, his grip firm on Finstock’s arm, making sure he didn’t completely fall over. By the time Finstock got one earbud out, he was overwhelmed by the smell of diesel exhaust and the sight of a huge truck with a meaty hand waving out of the driver’s window as it peeled around the corner.

The very _last_ thing that registered was the second half of a word, shouted in vile jubilation. He only heard a piece, but sometimes a piece is all that’s needed.

Stiles had his earbuds out much quicker than Finstock.

“Assholes.”

Stiles rolled his eyes with a shake of his head, but there was tension in his jaw. Finstock remembered when Stiles had come to him with that word because it had been slung out on the playground. That was when Finstock explained that there were the bad words that were fine to use because they didn’t hurt anyone… and then there were _bad_ words. Slurs.

_Fuck, shit,_ and _asshole_ didn’t hurt anyone. _Bad_ words did.

“Come on,” Finstock checked his watch, “we have to head inside.”

“Great,” Stiles nudged Finstock’s shoulder. “I can’t wait to get back to the Fart Dome.”

Finstock laughed because it was easy, a common joke they had refined over the years. Still, as they walked to the gymnasium, Finstock made sure to slip his arm around Stiles’s shoulders. A half-hug, a reassurance.

“You okay?”

In a few weeks he’d be thirteen. A _teenager._ When fall rolled around, he'd be entering ninth grade. Sometimes Stiles would get a faraway look at the gym, a looming worry of stepping forward into _high school._ Competition brought him back to the present. He smiled freely, and Finstock hated that some redneck tried to take precious moments of peace from a _kid._

Stiles nodded and they pushed open the doors. The familiar mix of body odor and rubbing alcohol hit them in the face.

“I thought people got smarter when they got older. It’s a _bad_ word, why would you use it? Kids I get, they don’t know anything but…” Stiles shrugged. “I thought adults would know better.”

“Stiles,” Finstock sighed and quickly spotted Evelyn who was waving them over, “I hate to break it to you, but most people are morons. Take it from a certified idiot, we’re everywhere.”

Evil fingers dug into Finstock’s side, hard enough to make him yelp.

“You’re not an idiot and you _know it.”_ Stiles whispered before he waved, clearing his throat. “Hi, Evelyn.”

Bigger competitions meant longer wait times meant instead of just _one_ day in a hotel, it would be four. Floor routines were always saved for last.

“Hi, Stiles. Ready for the finale?”

Stiles rubbed his nose.

“I’m ready to go back to California.” He fiddled with his iPod. “I’m just gonna…”

He trailed off, not waiting for permission but still allowing a pause, a silent _excuse me_ before he started listening to music.

Smaller competitions were in one gym, onlookers and competitors sitting in the bleachers. The further Finstock and Stiles went, the less space they had until they were out in the halls of a giant gymnasium, staking out space and throwing their bags on the floor. Televisions lined the walls, live-streaming what was happening inside the auditorium. Speakers announced that the competition would be starting in fifteen minutes.

Stiles did stretches, careful to not trip anyone.

Evelyn was part of the judging committee for the West Coast division, which meant during nationals she was invited to be on an observational panel and possible stand-in for any last-minute upsets. Finstock felt stupid, his stomach twisting with anxiety even though he wasn’t competing and was fine regardless of how Stiles did. It was all the groups around him, who _were not fine_ with an ambiguous outcome that made him nervous.

“Robert,” the use of his first name in all its formality made Finstock stiffen. Evelyn adjusted her glasses, her long grey hair braided down her back. “Depending on how this goes, you should seriously start considering the Olympics.”

Finstock didn’t look at Stiles because that would give it away, and he could tell Stiles was deep into his music, stretching and breathing in time with the beat.

“That’s not my decision to make.”

“I understand that but, Robert, you need to be realistic.” Evelyn kept her posture calm, her expression impassive even as she spoke quickly and quietly. “How he places today will affect the future national team and the coaches lined up for that position.” Finstock took a petulant sip from his thermos, counting on the whiskey-laced coffee to take the edge off. Evelyn crossed her arms, taking a look down the long, curved hallway at the other competitors. “ _If_ he is interested, that means he’ll have to train at a proper facility, one where the rings are not suspended from trees outside.” Finstock smiled and Evelyn elbowed him without saying _be serious._ “Next he’d either transfer schools or have to get authority from a parent or legal guardian that he is continuing to study by supplying materials from the school’s curriculum that he can turn in on at the beginning of the week.” The speakers crackled and Stiles glanced up, his hands reaching for his earbuds. Evelyn leaned in close. “If you aren’t his legal guardian already, I’d highly suggest beginning the paperwork for that once you get home.”

_**“Day Four of the 2013 National Gymnastics Competition will begin in five minutes. Please begin to line up for the opening ceremony.”** _

The announcement was loud enough to make Stiles cover his ears. He began to get up and Finstock automatically reached down, grabbing his hand and pulling him to his feet. Down the hall, a brutish man rounded the corner, pushing his way to the front of the line with a thin boy in tow, around Stiles’s age.

He was a loudmouth, the big and barrel-chested type. Finstock had seen a million of them before, he was sure he’d see a million again.

“Who is that?”

Stiles jutted his chin forward, his hands in his windbreaker pockets (actually, it was one of Finstock’s old windbreakers, all faded 80s colors and clashing patterns. Stiles wouldn’t stop laughing when he found it in Finstock’s closet, so it was his ever since). Eveyln followed his gaze to the dad who had his hand on his son’s shoulders, securing him at the front of the line.

“That’s Wesley Lahey and his son Isaac.” Evelyn gathered her bags, tucking some stray grey hairs behind her ear. “He’s on the short list of possible national coaches for the next Olympics. If his son takes first place, that will win him a lot of favors with the board.” She squeezed Finstock’s shoulder as she smiled at Stiles. “Good luck.”

Evelyn hurried down the hall to a separate room for the other advisors and members of the judging panel. Stiles and Finstock shuffled to the line. Finstock got to work on massaging Stiles’s hands, digging his thumbs into his palms.

Finstock glanced up to see Stiles’s eyes were focused down the line. Finstock shook Stiles’s fingers until he looked down.

“What’s up?”

Stiles blew out a long breath and he pulled lightly in Finstock’s grip.

“That guy, Lahey. That was the asshole in the truck.” Finstock’s mouth went slack, a weak _oh_ fell from his lips. Stiles was a wiry kid, all elbows and knees, but his jaw hardened, his eyes returning to the Laheys. “I might not be able to do it, but… I’m gonna try.” Stiles didn’t elaborate and Finstock grinned, standing up to rub his fingers in Stiles’s hair. “Because _fuck_ that guy.”

“A-fucking-men, kiddo.” Finstock felt a familiar wave of anxiety as the line shifted forward for the opening ceremony. “Remember, either way we’re getting milkshakes after.”

Stiles’s crooked grin dispelled the anxiety in Finstock’s chest.

The more competitions they went to, the farther Stiles excelled, the more Finstock saw what he called _hollow children._ Kids, _fucking kids,_ with flat eyes who were steered to wherever their parents pushed them. They never smiled, they never joked. Sometimes their scores were great, sometimes they were average, but either way the empty expression never changed. He saw bodies that were too muscular for that age, he saw kids limping to the mat and pushing themselves to further injury.

Finstock wasn’t an idiot. He knew parents stared at him when he had a bag of M&Ms ready after Stiles did his routine. He knew that it wasn’t _just_ his cursing that was such an oddity.

He saw the eyes that followed Stiles and his body, at how it was allowed to develop normally.

“Call a hearse,” Stiles bumped his fist against Finstock’s.

Finstock opened his hand and twisted his wrist so their palms dragged against each other, pulling at the skin.

“‘Cause you’re gonna knock ‘em dead.”

Stiles laughed before he pulled back, the line moving forward. Finstock stepped back with the other parents and coaches and watched the ceremony from the televisions. The crowd was massive, fans, sports writers, commentators, and scouts filled the seats. The competitors lined the mats, and the coaches and parents were only allowed out when it was their kid’s turn. _Until then,_ all eyes were on the screens.

The Lahey kid went before Stiles.

Finstock studied the screen with more attention than he usually paid to any competitor that wasn’t Stiles. He knew other parents and coaches scrutinized the other competitors with a sickening envy that felt too close to bullying for Finstock’s comfort level.

He watched the young kid walk up to the mat like he was scared of it. His blonde hair was too short to hide the haunted look in his eyes, the thin press of his lips before a Dire Straits song started playing.

The routine was… fine. It was good, a level of finesse that reminded Finstock of Peter Pan, but the grace didn’t match the song. It made the boy struggle to marry the delicacy of his routine to fit the heavy rock tempo. There was no question he was top tier, but the lack of excitement in the kid’s face didn’t sit right with Finstock.

Finally, as the day wound down, came Stiles’s turn.

Electricity charged the crowd when Stiles and Finstock walked out together. Those cheers got louder the more wins were dominated by the Stilinski name. Stiles glanced at the crowd for a split second before he met Finstock’s gaze. He smiled, and Finstock squeezed his shoulder.

_Go get ‘em, punk._

Finstock waited at the sidelines, camera out with a crooked grin on his face.

The buzzing flutter in his chest intensified as it did before every routine, not that Stiles would fail, but the rush of _another job well done._ The further they went, the more Finstock wondered… if it was good. More wins meant more attention meant… meant they were rapidly approaching the point of no return. Finstock was balancing on a knife’s edge. He was scared, and not for himself.

Stiles stood with his back to the crowd and judges. He held Finstock’s gaze and took a deep breath, his smile never wavering, never vanishing under a cold mask.

Dreamy jazz instruments kicked in, muted trumpets that had Stiles bending his knees, twisting around to face a wave of audience adoration. The sleepy intro, half a conversation, half sleepy ramblings. _Let me show you a few things,_ Stiles stretched and bent his body before straightening during the stark few seconds of silence.

He took off running seconds before the, _You ready, JT,_ set off the song.

The playful question was the moment Stiles’s feet left the ground, stealing Finstock’s breath as he flew into the air, arms crossed over his chest as he twisted, _twice,_ before landing without so much as a wobble in front of the judges, inches away from the border.

Stiles arched back as the song began, a dreamy R&B throwback to sixties crooners. He threw his legs back up and over, his face remaining inches above the mat as he brought his legs back down. Screams erupted from the stands. Finstock’s heart thundered in his chest, his hands shaking as Stiles bounded across the mat, leaping up the way Finstock taught him, a mixture of jazz, tap, and ballet.

_“This routine makes you look like Gene Kelly, if Gene Kelly were a gymnast,”_ Finstock had remarked months ago during practice.

Stiles had paused, eyebrows raised.

_“Who’s Gene Kelly?”_

Finstock showed him during one of the late nights where they ate pizza and watched movies. The kid was like a sponge, and if Finstock thought Kelly was in his movements before, it didn’t compare to what Stiles looked like after he saw him. His dance partner was gravity, a constant push and pull, a catch and release.

Stiles took off again, hands hitting the mat, twisting, pushing, and twirling in the air. Even with the speed, Finstock saw the grin on his face, the way his body arched before his feet hit the mats, briefly, before taking off again.

When Finstock danced, he never needed a partner. It wasn’t about the need to be with someone, or the routine of group activity. Dance was paradise _because_ it was dance. Gymnastics was paradise to Stiles not because of medals, cheers, or prestige. He loved _it._ It was that simple.

_You can’t beat a kid down and have them look like this,_ Finstock thought as Stiles landed to thunderous applause. Stiles returned to his Kelly twirls, dipping and diving only to bounce back up on the balls of his feet. _Let me show you a few things about love,_ the lyrics boasted as Stiles turned, readying himself for the final big move, _now we’re in the swing of love._

Finstock went into the competition wondering if Stiles was going to simplify the last section, but after Lahey had shouted at them, Finstock knew that Stiles wasn’t going to edit himself. It was a risk, it always made Finstock’s entire body tense at the gym, but when it landed, it really _landed._

He ran and threw himself forward, but instead of letting his hands catch him, he let the momentum of his legs carry him as his body twisted. His feet would not land on the mat at the same time, and it always looked like a mistake, it still elicited a gasp of concern from Finstock even though he’d seen Stiles do it a thousand times. The audience gasped, because they thought it was a movement gone wrong, that it would become a fight for control.

Stiles threw his hands out and melted into a backhand spring, going for another before pushing himself _up_ into another insane double spin in the air.

His feet landed on the _Stop,_ and the crowd went wild.

“Oh my fucking God,” Finstock thought it would get old, watching Stiles defy gravity, but it still rattled him to the core like the first time. “Oh my _fucking,_ God, Stiles.” Stiles flew into a hug, a thudding _whump_ that had Finstock stumbling back. He picked him up anyways, ignoring the ache in his back and arms at the weight from Stiles’s muscles. “That was incredible, just _incredible.”_

Stiles twisted in Finstock’s grip, keeping his arm wrapped around Finstock’s waist as they both glanced up at the scoreboards. The judges murmured to each other, and the crowd got rowdy after thirty seconds. The board listed every participant, with _I. Lahey_ at the top.

They breathed together, the impatient roars from the stands bleeding into white noise until the screen flickered, and a _new_ name took the top place. Stiles squeezed his arms around Finstock’s middle and they both leapt in the air, their joyous shrieks swallowed by the audience’s applause.

::::

“Quit it, you little brat, I’m _not_ gonna tell you.”

Finstock shoved open the Beacon Hills diner door, still reeking of the plane ride and SFO airport. Stiles ducked under his arm and hip-checked him because he knew it would make Finstock stumble. Stiles turned around on his heel, his medal hung around his neck. Finstock thought first place would be gold, but instead it was a large black disc with gold lettering. _National Champion._

“You’ve never been able to keep a birthday surprise from me since I was five. Give up already.”

They’d been to the diner often enough that the hostess just gestured to the back. They went to their usual booth, all the way by the windows that overlooked the parking lot. Fake leather squeaked and Stiles jammed himself up against the glass.

“Well this is gonna be the year I _do_ keep it a secret, so lay off,” Finstock grouched, cracking his neck as he stretched his legs out to rest on the opposite seat by Stiles. Fingers drummed on Finstock’s sneaker, Stiles narrowing his eyes with a terrible, _scheming_ grin. “Stop it, I’m serious. My lips are fucking _sealed.”_

Stiles leaned back in the booth, stretching his arms out on either side.

“You’re gonna crack before we get home.”

Finstock flipped him off.

The diner had become a tradition of sorts, after any amount of traveling or a long day at practice, the only comfort food was _diner_ food. They’d gotten on a plane a few hours after Stiles was named the _US Gymnastics Champion,_ their ears still ringing from the cheers during take off.

Finstock’s body ached when he stepped off the plane, and he expected since Stiles was yawning between every breath that the kid would just want to go home.

Instead, as Finstock waited in line for coffee-coffee _(coffee was what Fisntock kept in his thermos. Coffee-coffee was alcohol free coffee. Stiles came up with the terms, not holding disdain for either word, and Finstock had stopped blushing at their use after the first month)_ Stiles elbowed him with a, “Diner?”

Stiles drowned a stack of fluffy chocolate-chip pancakes in maple syrup. Finstock stuck with an egg-white omelette because he was getting _old._

_“Keep an eye on your cholesterol. You’re more in shape than other men your age, but… I’d think about easing back on the drinking.”_ Finstock had been in a thin tank-top and boxers, trying not to think about how he hadn’t bothered with a physical in years, how it never seemed practical. He tried not to look too hard at why he felt his health was now something worth paying attention to. _“Yeah,”_ Finstock pulled on his track pants, _“I’ll think about it.”_

“Stiles,” Finstock twisted his straw wrapper, “I need to ask you something.”

They never announced questions. Finstock lovingly called those kind of sentences _bullshit fluff words._ Stiles’s eyebrows lifted, then lowered at whatever look was on Finstock’s face. He dropped the wrapper and wrung his hands. Stiles glanced around before leaning forward, his face grey around the edges.

“What is it?”

Finstock exhaled, hating how his breath shook. _Get a grip, idiot._ He met Stiles’s brown eyes, and if Finstock thought _he_ was worried it was _nothing_ compared to Stiles. People had a habit of underestimating kids and how much they could handle in terms of emotional range. Stiles worried more than half the adults Finstock knew. He worried _too much_ and it broke Finstock’s heart every time.

“Do you,” Finstock’s hands trembled. He couldn’t have his coffee until he got home. His voice cracked and he rubbed his palm across his mouth. “Do you want to try for the Olympics, Stiles?”

Brown eyes blinked, and then Stiles slumped dramatically across the table, almost spilling Finstock’s coffee-coffee.

“Jesus _Christ,_ Bobby, I thought you were going to tell me you were sick or something.” Stiles wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. _“Fuck.”_

“What? No, I would never— _no._ I’m fine. I just— Jesus.” Finstock dragged his hand down his face. “From now on, I’m never doing that lead-up shit. That was horrible, I felt like I was going to throw up. I’m just… gonna say it next time.”

“Yeah,” Stiles rolled his eyes, “do that.” Finstock picked at his omelette and Stiles ordered a milkshake. He ran his fingers over his medal before he spoke up. “Is it…” Stiles bit his lip and the table creaked under his elbows. “That could be,” Stiles smiled wide. The same way he did when he asked for something simple that he thought he’d never have. “That could be really cool.” Stiles relaxed when he saw that Finstock was smiling with him. “What would that mean in terms of… changing what we do already?”

Finstock heaved out air, a laugh that was a little hysterical, a lot exhausted.

“Evelyn had a lot of suggestions.” Finstock was getting a headache thinking about the long blocks of texts about protein-based diets, workout regimes that made Finstock’s muscles bruise just looking at it, and tournament schedules. Finstock took a long sip of coffee-coffee. “To start, we’d just keep doing what we’re doing, because it’s worked so far. What will change is the competitions, especially now that you’re the national champion. And… the farther you go…” Finstock sighed. “If you get onto the American Team, then you will have a different Coach. Evelyn says I _might_ be able to stay on as an advisor, but… it would be the Coach’s call and Evelyn said with my inexperience, she didn’t think it would be likely.”

“ _Inexperience—?_ You’re _my_ Coach, that’s experience!” Stiles crossed his arms. “That’s bullshit.”

“You’re tellin’ me. But think about it, there are guys who make this their entire careers. I’m just a guy who owns a gym in a rural town.” Finstock continued before Stiles could argue otherwise. “Point is, the gym you’d be training at certainly wouldn’t be mine, and at that point you’d have to start thinking of school and…” _No more bullshit fluff words,_ Finstock reminded himself, “Evelyn suggested I become your legal guardian. To help with paperwork and it would make it easier for me to visit and get you filled in on all the stuff happening back home.”

Finstock made sure to keep his shoulders down and his hands relaxed on the table. Even if the calm was a facade, Finstock knew he could deal with his own anxiety later. Stiles frowned for a millisecond, a brief pull of his lips, and then his face carefully smoothed out into a more neutral expression.

“Um,” Stiles kept his eyes down, twisting his straw wrapper in a way that made Finstock’s heart stutter, “what would that mean for my… parents? They’d still be my parents, right?”

“Oh,” Finstock waved his hand, “yeah. I looked it up, someone can still be your legal acting guardian while you still have parents who are, you know, your… your…”

“Guardian-guardians.” Stiles lifted his gaze. “And you’d be my guardian.”

Finstock smiled, crooked and relieved.

“Exactly.”

Stiles _got it,_ Finstock knew he would. The kid had such a good head on his shoulders it blew Finstock’s mind.

_“Frankly, I’m shocked you aren’t his legal guardian already. It’s been what, seven years and I’ve only seen you at these competitions.”_ Evelyn was no-nonsense during the three minutes they had together after the competition, during the endless flashes of cameras capturing Stiles up on the podium, his grin luminous. _“At the very least, if he’s in your care that often you should protect yourself, legally speaking.”_

Stiles cleared his throat, his cheeks pink.

“Well, if you’re okay with it—”

“I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it.”

Stiles kicked Finstock’s shin.

“That will make sign-ups easier. You _suck_ at forging my dad’s signature.”

Finstock threw money down on the table, making a mock noise of annoyance.

“Whatever, smart ass. Get moving, you need sleep and I need to talk to your folks.”

It was just a little past eight in the morning, and Finstock had a feeling he was going to pass out the moment he fell onto his bed. Stiles rolled down the window, and five seconds after they pulled out of the parking lot, he rolled his head to the side and grinned.

“What are you getting me for my birthday?”

Finstock made a show of rolling his eyes and slowing down.

“Tuck and roll outta my car.”

Even though Stiles was running on fumes, held together from the thrill of the win and the anxiety of returning home… he still laughed, loud and full, as they drove over the familiar roads of Beacon Hills.

::::

Noah Stilinski always assumed he would have children the way most heterosexual men from his generation thought about children. He always had a vague notion that he would be married, have a job, a dog, and a couple of kids. A boy and a girl, a few of each, he wasn’t picky. He would have a kid because that was what _men_ did. They had wives. They had children.

His father, usually full of hateful bile, beamed on Noah’s wedding day.

_“You’re a real man,”_ he’d said as he clapped his meaty hand on Noah’s back. He said it like Noah was finally making him proud.

He thought maybe his dad knew what he was talking about, maybe all the terrible years growing up under a raging drunk… maybe he just needed to see Noah as a _man._

Then Claudia’s water broke three weeks before she was expected to go into labor.

_Get married, have kids,_ everyone made it sound so easy. There was _nothing_ easy about rushing to the hospital, to listening to his wife _sob_ in the backseat, hysterical because she was ahead of schedule. She kept reaching between her legs, squinting in the dark, whispering _is that blood?_ There was nothing easy about her cries echoing in the hospital lobby.

Claudia’s knuckles were white as she grabbed her nurse’s arm.

_“Save the baby, please.”_

_“Claudia, **no,”**_ Noah grabbed the nurse’s shoulder. _“Keep my wife alive.”_

She was wheeled into the trauma center, and Noah was told to wait in the expectant fathers room. He didn’t feel like a man as he jumped at every footstep, as he prayed to a God he rarely believed in to spare his wife. The uncomfortable pink plastic chair dug into his ass, and all he could think about was who the nurse would obey.

By the time the nurse returned, Noah felt like he’d lived six torturous lifetimes.

_“Congratulations, sir. You have a baby boy—”_

_“Is my wife okay?”_

Claudia would always be his first concern. The nurse blinked, like it never occurred to her that he’d ask after his wife. She led him to the room, explaining that Claudia was _“stable, but the birth put a strain on her heart.”_ She had a fever and an infection, so they had to keep his son isolated from Claudia.

_“Would you like to go hold him first?”_

_“No,”_ Noah didn’t hesitate, _“take me to my wife.”_

Noah felt like he was still in the hospital, waiting on the edge of an abyss, of an existence without Claudia.

Claudia had been fidgeting ever since Stiles texted that he landed. She had coffee going, pancake batter ready, and she’d tried to do a deep clean of the entire house but once she started to lose her breath Noah convinced her to sit and wait in the kitchen. She drank coffee and her foot bounced. When he rolled over the oxygen tank they were given by the hospital, she waved her hand.

“I don’t need it.” Claudia coughed, a dry rattle that cut Noah to the bone. “I _don’t.”_ He kept it tucked in the corner by the cabinets, just in case. Her eyes darted to the clock for the fifth time in the past two minutes. “How do you think he placed?”

Noah shrugged.

“Hm, I haven’t thought about it. Maybe… fifth?”

Claudia bit her lip.

“It’s _nationals._ You really think he’ll place that high? Out of the entire country?” She wrung her hands. “I just hope he’s not disappointed if he didn’t get a medal.”

Noah felt adrift, confused in a dull way. Claudia worked herself up, worrying and worrying which chipped away at her own health over… a competition? Stiles had been to countless competitions over the years, and Noah frankly had no idea where he was putting all the trophies and medals. They had run out of room on the shelf four years ago. Watching his wife bother over such… a strange thought pattern made Noah feel stupid, like he was missing something.

“He’ll be home soon,” he offered.

Claudia didn’t stop wringing her hands until truck tires crunched on the gravel outside. Claudia stood up and Noah steadied her when she swayed on her feet. Noah needed to get to the door first, to remind Stiles to calm down, to lower his voice because Claudia was already pushing herself too far, too fast.

Before he could take two steps, the door swung open.

“Mom! Dad!” Stiles stumbled inside, his voice filling the hallway like an army of trumpets and drums. He thundered down the hall, tossing his backpack on the stairs. Every hackle in Noah’s body was raised, every alarm in his brain blaring, screaming at him to _make him quiet, make him calm._ “I’m home, I missed you—”

Whatever he was going to say next was muffled by Claudia’s embrace.

Finstock took his shoes off by the door, lumbering down their narrow hallway with quiet steps that didn’t match his body and overall nature. He was a strange man that only got stranger the longer Noah knew him. He gave the same awkward, tight-lipped nod he always gave Noah before he cleared his throat, making Claudia glance up.

“We stopped to get breakfast. It was a long flight.”

“Oh.” Claudia kept her arms tight around Stiles, twisting around to look towards the kitchen. “Did you want some coffee—”

“No, that’s all right,” Finstock, a man who cursed and seemed to compete with various wild animals in terms of decibels, always looked the most awkward when he was trying to be polite. “Thank you.”

Stiles wriggled in his mother’s arms, pulling away with visible strain to paw at his own chest.

“Mom,” Stiles gripped her arm, _too tight, much too tight,_ and grinned. “Mom, _look.”_ He struggled to get something off his neck, a medal. He shoved it into Claudia’s shaking hands. Stiles grinned. “Fucking _first place,_ Mom.”

“Stiles, _language,”_ Noah reminded him, but was cut off by Claudia’s gasp.

“Oh, sweetheart.” She kissed Stiles’s forehead. “I’m so _proud_ of you.”

The only reason Noah had brought Stiles to Finstock was because he needed something, _anything,_ to wear the kid out. The more time passed, the more Finstock proved to be the right choice.

Despite the initial excitement bursting from every inch of his face, Stiles began to yawn. Even his _yawns_ were loud, big exaggerated stretches of mouth and teeth.

“Stiles,” Noah shook his shoulder. “Go get some sleep.”

Stiles was his best when he was too tired to argue. He slipped out of Claudia’s embrace and tossed the medal to Finstock. The man caught it easily, giving him a mock salute as he slipped it into his jacket pocket. Stiles climbed the stairs, the creaks a familiar sound in Noah’s house.

“You know what,” Finstock’s voice made Claudia’s shoulders jump, like she forgot he was there, “I’ll take you up on that coffee.” The unexpected turn made Noah wary. Finstock usually made himself scarce, which Noah appreciated, and he _never_ invited himself to stay. Finstock slouched onto a kitchen stool, his elbows hitting the tile hard and his shoulders hunched as Claudia poured coffee. “Thank you.” He took a long sip, not wincing at the heat. He set the cup down, his free hand rubbing his stubbly cheek. “So,” Finstock cleared his throat, meeting Noah’s eyes briefly before focusing on Claudia. “Stiles got first place in nationals. Being the best in the country means that a lot of athletes would start thinking about the Olympics.”

Claudia sat down, her breath coming in short, hollow bursts. Without hesitating, Noah rolled the oxygen tank over to her, handing her the mask while he turned it on, air filling the tubes. Claudia took three deep breaths before she took the mask off.

“Okay.”

Finstock’s mouth twitched and he hid it behind his hand for a few seconds before he drew his fingers back, rolling his shoulders.

“He wants to give it a shot. I’ll do everything I can to help him, but it won’t be easy.” Finstock finished his coffee with a violent swig. “Depending on how far it goes, he’s going to need a guardian who’s readily available to him. So, um,” ugly splotches of red and pink marred Finstock’s already odd face, “an option would be for me to become a legal guardian.”

_Something_ must have been on Claudia’s and Noah’s face, because Finstock cleared his throat.

“I mean,” Finstock hurried, “nothing would change. And it’s totally possible to have a legal guardian while still having parents. The west coast circuit let me get away with a lot of stuff that technically should have been taken care of by one of you, but… there’s not a lot of time for it, I get it. But going forward, a shitty forged signature isn’t going to cut it.” Finstock put his hands down on the table, pushing himself to his feet. “It’s your decision, obviously. It’s fine with me, the kid sleeps at my place half the week as it is. Let me know what you two decide.”

With a tired grunt, Finstock lumbered back down the hall, his keys jingling in his hand as he pulled on his shoes. _He still has the medal,_ Noah thought, as the door closed behind him, ignoring Claudia’s eyes burning the back of his neck.

Ever since his birth, Stiles’s presence felt like a clock ticking down. Claudia’s damaged heart, her weakened lungs, tick-tick-ticking down into an early death. He kept growing, getting taller, louder, more _real,_ tick-tick-ticking into an adult faster than Noah thought possible.

“Stiles stays with him?” Plastic creaked in boney palms. Noah turned, his wife’s lips pulled into a thin grimace. “Since _when?”_

Tick.

Tick.

Ticking.

A few weeks later, Noah and Claudia had signed the paperwork for Robert Finstock to be a legal guardian to Stiles. A few weeks later, it was Stiles’s birthday and Claudia wasn’t talking to Noah.

The set up for Stiles’s birthday was simple, it was just going to be Scott and Finstock joining. Noah worried that more people should be there, but immediately thought, _who would come?_ He strung up a balloon on the back of Stiles’s chair despite him sitting with Scott in the garden.

Stiles perked up at the sound of Finstock’s truck. Scott grinned, even _he_ knew. Hot shame gripped Noah’s throat as Finstock rounded the corner with a small wrapped gift, but his grin said that the present was just a facade. Stiles swayed on his feet, his eyes trained on the person _behind_ Finstock.

“Look what the asshole dragged in,” the stranger drawled.

_“Jordan?”_ Stiles ran and leapt into the air, almost knocking the twenty-something over. “What— when— _how?”_

The young man was in his twenties, tall with a charming smile, and he hefted Stiles into a bone-popping hug. Noah couldn’t hear what Jordan said, but he saw him make a motion to Finstock. Stiles was in Finstock’s arms in the next second, pulling back and expletives falling from his mouth with pure affection. He took the present and Finstock gave Scott a high five, chatting with him while Jordan sauntered over to Noah and Claudia.

“Hi, I’m Jordan Parrish. I used to work at the gym with Bobby.”

Noah was in his yard, throwing a party for his son, but he felt like he an intruder as Stiles danced with Scott to a song Noah had never heard. Finstock clapped his hands in time with the beat, shouting posture improvements around peals of laughter. Noah was shaking the hand of a man he’d never met, but his son had screamed at his arrival. He had to swallow past the hesitation because he never thought of Finstock as _Bobby._

“Noah Stilinski. Welcome.”

When Noah was a young man, he thought he’d have a wife and kids, because back then that was what men did. He imagined these things in shadowy outlines, like a song on the radio that kept cutting off and going fuzzy around the edges. He’d see orange juice commercials with a smiling wife and gap-toothed children eating their _nutritionally balanced breakfast_ and he’d think _yeah, I want to be a father._

He never expected that being a father would involve his wife barely looking at him for weeks as he set up a table in the backyard for Stiles’s modest birthday party. He never thought fatherhood would involve him staring at birthday cards and realizing that he had no idea what his son wanted. He never imagined having a son would mean watching another man come to his home and effortlessly step into the role Noah thought he wanted to play.

::::

The first time Stiles went over to Scott’s house, he was jealous. Jealous of how _warm_ his house was, how there were pictures on the wall of Scott and his mother, and of how Melissa’s laugh filled the entire kitchen without someone immediately coming in to quiet her down. Scott’s house had felt like a movie set, something practiced, polished, and designed to inspire comfort, and Stiles _wanted_ it so badly he could cry.

He loved Scott’s home fiercely, as much as he loved Scott and Melissa.

He spent his last night in Beacon Hills on Scott’s living room floor, shoulder-to-shoulder as they played a Super Mario Kart Double Dash. Rainbow Road’s theme twinkled and glittered in the room as they fell off the various turns and sudden drops.

“You’re so lucky you don’t have to deal with another year of Harris. I thought he’d get easier when we got older.” Scott sighed. “Nope,” he _popped_ the p, “still sucks.”

Stiles laughed, but it sounded thin to his own ears. He finished second, Scott was first. As their characters went through the automated trophy ceremony, Stiles sat with his back against the couch, the bottom cushions pillowing his spine.

There were moments in Stiles’s life that he called _molasses moments._ It was when things slowed to a crawl, in a nice way just like molasses. Sweet without rotting your teeth moments. His routines were too quick, more about the watery flow of motion through air, spinning up and around with gravity’s help. That was different.

Molasses moments were softer. They were the feel of carpet fibers between his fingers, the crackle of oil sizzling on a pan. They were the sound of Bobby’s bones popping when he stretched in the morning, the smell of coffee being brewed, and the drag of the kitchen chair always accompanied with a “fuck, it’s too early.”

Scott stretched his shoulders and rolled his neck. He got taller, filled out more and didn’t reach for his inhaler at the slightest exertion of energy. It was hard to believe this was the same kid in the sandbox, clumsily following Stiles into the grass.

Stiles never noticed anything different when he looked in the mirror.

_“Yeah, that’s normal,”_ Bobby insisted on one of the nights Stiles stayed over. He spat frothy toothpaste into the sink and stared at his own reflection, long enough for Bobby to notice. When Stiles explained why, Bobby rolled his eyes, leaning against the door frame. _“You’re stuck with your face your whole life, it always looks the same. Trust me, you’ve grown. Hurry up, my mouth smells like garbage disposal.”_

“Boys,” Melissa parted the living room curtains and Stiles and Scott threw up their hands before the sun could burn out their retinas. “Have you been playing all night?”

Scott ducked his head, his hands still covering his eyes.

“Yeah, mom.”

“Come on, Mel,” Stiles braved the light, squinting. “It’s my last night of freedom.”

Mel laughed, loud and warm for the morning. Stiles couldn’t help but laugh with her, getting caught up in the bubbly feeling of happiness. She laughed the way his mom _used_ to laugh. Stiles wasn’t sure when it started, a guilt that gnawed away at his stomach because he _should_ have noticed, but at some point his mom had stopped laughing. Her smiles had waned, her patience for the garden had thinned.

_She just needs more rest,_ his dad insisted. He’d been insisting that for Stiles’s entire life.

“You’re training for the Olympics, not going to prison. Get up, I’m making pancakes.”

A heavy hand wound its fingers in Stiles’s ribcage as he sat on the stools in Scott’s kitchen. He couldn’t count the amount of Saturday mornings he’d sit with his back against the cabinets, his toes brushing against the cold tiles while Melissa made coffee. That morning was like all the others, Scott next to Stiles while Melissa tied up her hair as she made funny shapes with pancake batter.

Scott usually dove into pancakes with wild abandon, but that morning he was subdued. Stiles swallowed, his throat tight despite sugary syrup. He slumped to the side and let his head fall on Scott’s shoulder.

“I’m gonna miss you, Scott.”

An arm looped around Stiles’s waist and pulled him close.

“I’ll take really good notes for you, okay? I promise.”

It was the first time pancakes tasted bittersweet. Mel drank coffee while Stiles promised that he’d be back for junior prom to show everyone how to dance, and for a moment it was easy to pretend Stiles’s heart wasn’t breaking. He could pretend he could live in this molasses moment forever, in a house where a mother could still laugh and Stiles could feel warm without being covered in blankets.

Then the doorbell rang, and the moment was over.

“Melissa,” his dad’s smile got more sour each year. “Thanks for letting him spend the night.”

He said that every time, and Melissa’s answer was always the same.

“It’s no problem, Noah.”

Stiles hugged Scott as tight as he could, wishing he had the time to have the kind of epic goodbyes he saw in movies where there were monologues and sweeping music. Instead, all he got was a hug, a whispered, _“I’m gonna text you, like, all the time,”_ a firm hand on his shoulder, and a grunted, _“time to go, Stiles,”_ from his father. Stiles squeezed Scott’s hand before he turned and got into his father’s cruiser.

His mother had stopped laughing, and his dad had stopped talking. Well, his dad had always been distant, but he’d stopped talking to _mom._ His house felt like a library with no books. Stiles noticed that he’d gotten louder at school, causing trouble, always going for a laugh even if it got him a black eye, and he wondered if it was because whenever he was home, his ears would be ringing with _silence. Something,_ even mindless chatter, was better than _nothing._

Stiles was out of the car the moment it hit their driveway.

“Are you sure you have everything?” His mom was in pajamas, sitting by the backdoor but not going out. Stiles made sure his eyes didn’t linger on the window too long. If he kept his eyes on his own hands, on his mom, he wouldn’t see the weeds creeping closer to the tomatoes. “We can always double-check—”

“I got it.” Stiles unzipped his bag, carefully shifting things aside, muttering under his breath that all the essentials until he was sure. He zipped up his bag and slung it over his shoulder. “All set.”

He used to know what to say to his mom to get her to smile. They used to have a second language of inside jokes and stories that could occupy their time for hours, and Stiles didn’t know when it started dissolving, but there was nothing left. The act of him putting on his backpack made her eyes well with tears. His dad made a sound, a familiar angry huff of air, and Stiles didn’t know what he did, or what he could have done different.

“I’m sorry,” his mom waved her hand in front of her face like she could dismiss the tears like they were dust in the wind. “I’m going to miss you, sweetheart.”

Stiles hugged her, the angle awkward since she was sitting, but he made it work.

“I’ll call. Every day, I promise.”

She squeezed him hard, and Stiles moved to reciprocate, surely if his mom was squeezing him, it meant she wanted more, right? He readjusted his arms, but then heard a _Sss_ behind him, a light hiss of his dad about to say his name. Stiles was a quick learner, and he immediately let go. This hissing stopped, his name never coming out of his father’s mouth.

Gravel crunched and Stiles didn’t have time to worry if the relief on his face was too obvious.

“That’s Bobby,” Stiles pulled back, adjusting the weight of his backpack on his shoulder. “I’ll text you guys once I’m there. I love you.”

His mother’s “I love you,” hit his back. Each step toward the door brought muffled music, rumbling exhaust, and a tone-deaf whistle that made Stiles smile. He threw the door open and didn’t flinch at the cold air. Bobby leaned against his truck, arms crossed and shades on. His indifferent frown melted the moment Stiles stepped outside, and lifted into a crooked smirk.

“‘Morning, punk. I hope you’re ready for a long fucking drive.” Stiles’s sneakers slid on the gravel as he ran, hugging Bobby tight, as tight as he wanted to hug his mom. The _oof_ that hummed in Bobby’s chest was familiar, rumbling louder the taller Stiles got. “Yeah, yeah,” Bobby’s voice was gruff, annoyed, but he hugged back just as fiercely. “Let’s get rolling.” Stiles pulled back in time to hear the house door shut and lock. His father was gone, already back inside. Bobby’s chin bumped the top of Stiles’s head. “You good?”

“Yeah.” Stiles slipped his bag off his shoulders and tossed it in the back. “I’m good.”

::::

No one just _goes to the Olympics._

Stiles knew that, but he didn’t realize just how _much_ was going to change after he won the US Nationals for the first time. Bobby changed their routines to be focused on finesse and perfecting form. _It’s gonna be boring, but it will make you better,_ Bobby promised. Still, Bobby made Friday’s the fun day where Stiles could do whatever he wanted, no matter how wild and how dizzy it made him.

“I still think it’s bullshit they won’t let you be my coach.”

The best part about the long drive down to Los Angeles was the stop at Casa de Fruta. Local California farms came together to sell their products at one giant stop in the middle of long stretches of dusty farmland. Bobby loaded up on dried mango while Stiles bagged up candied peanuts and cashews.

“Look, it’s like I said, I just own a gym. Just because I know how to help you out doesn’t mean I’m gonna be able to do that with anyone else.” Bobby shrugged into a self-deprecating slouch that most people didn’t notice because of his crooked grin and gruff voice. “Lahey has been doing this for years, it’s his thing.”

“It’s _your_ thing.” Stiles knew he was being immature. _Don’t whine,_ he heard a whisper from his father, long ago, back when his dad still squeezed his arm and scolded him. “I don’t like him.”

“Maybe he’s changed over the years.” Even Bobby couldn’t maintain a straight face, his forced optimism curdling into an awkward grimace as they made their way to the parking lot. “Look,” Bobby hopped up on the truck bed, pulling Stiles up so their legs dangled over the side. He handed him a black cherry soda. “The guy has three sons, and two of them have gone to the Olympics and brought home gold. You’ll be training with his third son, and… I mean, that has to mean he’s got _something,_ right? He must know what he’s doing.” Bobby shrugged, nudging Stiles’s shoulder. “I just got lucky.”

In the very, _very_ private space of Stiles’s mind… he would imagine things he wouldn’t even tell _Scott…_

He wondered what it would have been like if Bobby had been his dad.

Stiles was young when he first thought about it, in a childish way where Bobby was just sloppily shoved into Stiles’s house, like a cartoon character carefully cut out of a magazine and glued atop a photograph. Those musings were restricted to whether or not Bobby knew how to make pancakes and if waiting with him for the bus would be more fun than standing in silence with his dad.

As he got older, the musings were less… outlandish.

It wasn’t uncommon for Stiles to spend the night, sometimes days in a row, at Bobby’s house. Over the summer when Stiles was ten, Bobby had him help clear out the “office” in Bobby’s house. It was really full of boxes and junk, but over two days of cleaning and maneuvering, it became _Stiles’s room._ Stiles knew the way the floor creaked under Bobby’s feet when he made coffee in the morning, he knew he had to close the upper cabinets with more force than the lower ones. If it was a long night where Bobby and Stiles would talk over trashy reality tv until their stomachs hurt from laughing, Stiles would be the first one awake and would start coffee.

Bobby’s hand would fall on his head in the morning, a heavy pressure, his fingers rubbing Stiles’s scalp as he drank straight from the pot.

_Would things really be that different,_ Stiles thought as his throat tightened around bubbling black cherry fizz, _if you were my dad?_

Stiles shoved his arm around Finstock’s middle, pulling him into a half hug. He ducked down and hid his face against Finstock’s shoulder.

“I got lucky too.”

When Bobby inhaled, his lungs shook. His fingers were warm against Stiles’s hip. He rested his chin on Stiles’s shoulder as cars sulked down the lanes, looking for parking spots.

Stiles wondered if… if he needed to _say_ things more, if what seemed so obvious to him was _not_ obvious to Bobby. At home, the rule of thumb was the shorter the answer Stiles gave, the better it was. If his answer to _how was school_ was longer than _good,_ he had to watch his mother and father slowly get more worry lines on their forehead. The less noise, the better.

Bobby was the opposite. He craved noise, he blasted music, shouted curses when he spilled coffee, and laughed loudly. No question was too stupid, no emotion too ugly, Bobby took everything as it was.

A brief press of lips to the top of his head took the tension out of Stiles’s body. He slumped all his weight on Bobby, and Bobby caught it without complaint.

“Hey,” Bobby’s coffee-coffee breath was a burst of bitter heat against Stiles’s hair. “Before we drop you off, let’s do some really cringey touristy shit, okay?”

Stiles laughed, and if it was watery, Bobby’s answering giggle didn’t sound much different. They rolled back onto the road, Bobby bitched about traffic entering Los Angeles, and they went on one of the awful celebrity sighting tours. Stiles took a few pictures, but mostly it was him and Bobby, shoulder-to-shoulder, giggling when Finstock’s whispered, “who the shit is that?” at some of the names. They got milkshakes at In & Out and went down to Santa Monica pier.

After getting on the ferris wheel and Bobby hugged the carriage’s center column with a weak, “Oh, I think I hate heights,” they watched the sun sink into the water, sending out blinding glimmers of amber-gold across the waves before plunging the water into darkness.

He stared out over the dark sea, brine tangling in his hair. Leaving his home, packing up his room into two large bags, it hadn’t made his throat tight… but on the docks, with the wind slicing against his cheeks, he realized that he could be homesick for something that wasn’t his _home._

Not technically.

He was going to stay with one of his teammates, a boy he’d only met in passing at competitions, Vernon Boyd. Tomorrow he’d start a different workout regime with Coach Lahey. Tomorrow he’d start his first steps toward competing in the 2016 Olympics.

“Bobby,” Stiles’s voice cracked as he turned away from the ocean, “I’m going to miss you.”

He’d never meant something so truly in his life and at the same time the words weren’t enough, weren’t _nearly_ enough to really capture what he _meant._

He’d miss how it felt to share a smile over an inside joke, he’d miss singing purposely off-key to the radio because of how Bobby would _screech_ at him to stop killing his ears, and he’d miss the sting of his palms after a high-five.

He wondered if Bobby would miss him the same way.

“Geez, punk,” Bobby pushed away from the railing, jerking his head to the side, a silent _let’s go,_ “you’re outta your Goddamn mind if you think I’m not gonna call and check up on you.” Bobby’s eyes shimmered in the dark as they waded through the crowd toward the parking lot. “Fuck, I’ll be down here every other weekend as it is, delivering school work.” He squeezed Stiles’s shoulder. “I’m gonna miss you too. Beacon Hills won’t be the same without you.”

Gnawing _worry_ tickled his chest, worry that he wouldn’t be good enough, that he’d come home to disappointed sighs that seemed to haunt his house, that… that maybe the only reason he was good at all was because Bobby was there to guide him. Stiles pressed the heel of his hand against his sternum to quell the buzzing.

Bobby glanced at him and smiled.

Stiles returned with a crooked grin of his own, and dizzying stillness filled the space between his ribs.

::::

Stiles’s bare feet bounced on the padded gym flooring. He ran his finger over his phone’s cracked screen and saw that he had a new voicemail from his mom. He quickly slipped in earbuds as Coach Lahey blew his whistle, making all of their shoulders jump even though it was Isaac doing _monitored drills._ The pattern was brutal, a series of spins and jumps, a whistle, and a biting _“again”_ that was immediately obeyed.

He knew going to the Olympics was going to be hard… but Stiles thought he’d still feel some amount of joy at the thought of getting into the air. Lately, his feet felt heavier and heavier.

_“Hey sweetheart,”_ his mother’s voice was a welcome relief against Lahey barking at his son, spit flying from his lips as Isaac’s landing wobbled. The Coach pushed his finger hard against his son’s shoulder, like that was going to make him better. _“I hope you’re doing well at practice. I’m going to have to go to sleep early tonight, but I want you to know that I love you.”_ Isaac fell on his next attempt, his knees hitting the mat with a smack Stiles could hear through the earbuds. _“I’m so proud of you, I know it’s hard, but I just **know** you can do this, Stiles. I know you can.”_

His breath shuddered, his thumb hovering over REPLAY.

“No. Stop.” Lahey growled as Isaac crumbled to the floor after twenty minutes of nonstop flips and twists. “If you’re not going to _try,_ don’t waste my time.” His jaw was tight and Stiles managed to shove his phone into his bag before Coach’s eyes hit him. “Stilinski. You’re up.”

Danny, Jackson, and Boyd breathed a sigh of relief, never loud enough for Lahey to hear. Stiles stood, shoving his backpack under the bench as he rolled his shoulders. As he stepped onto the mat, Isaac walked off, eyes watering and gaze straight ahead.

Stiles swallowed down guilt as Lahey waved his hand.

“You do the same routine, stop when I blow the whistle.”

Stiles rolled his shoulders and began.

When Stiles’s body was still warm from Bobby’s departing hug, Boyd hadn’t cracked a smile, hadn’t offered a hand to shake. He just showed Stiles to a spare bedroom that was decked out in pink and purple wallpaper with a bunch of stuffed animals. _“This is my sister’s room. You can sleep here, but you can not redecorate.”_ Boyd hadn’t said anything to him since, and that had been three months ago.

He knew practicing with a team and professional coach would be different… but he didn’t think it was going to be so cold.

Stiles had gone in optimistically on his first day, after waking up at five to catch the bus with Boyd, with his hand outstretched, warily eager to meet the other teammates. Jackson rolled his eyes, with a sharp, bitter laugh, _“Oh wow, Dorothy, what farm did you blow in from?”_ Isaac fleetingly glanced at Stiles before turning away, and Danny gently pushed down his hand.

_“You’re not here to make friends,”_ had been Danny’s greeting. _“You’re here to go to the Olympics.”_

When Bobby changed practice to focus more on form and finesse, he would stop to give Stiles suggestions, to make comments, for them to have a conversation about how to improve. Lahey said nothing, changed nothing, and finally when he blew the whistle Stiles’s legs burned but he managed a smooth landing.

“We’re done for the night. Boyd, Stiles, I can drop you two off.”

He shot his son a look, one that made Isaac slouch further down, his eyes never leaving the floor.

Stiles’s muscles still shivered and jumped under his skin as Boyd, Jackson, and Danny gathered up their bags and headed to the showers. No one talked to each other. Music was never played.

Coach Lahey made it clear that he would not change, Stiles _still_ had nightmares about his first week of practices, of trying to get him to play music, say something more than _“again.”_ Any form of resistance was paid in sweat and blood.

Isaac sniffed, his head ducking low like if he slouched enough no one would see the tears rolling down his nose. It wasn’t the first time Stiles had stepped off the mat with Isaac crying on the bench, everyone else in the showers. Stiles had walked past him other nights, following the unspoken tradition to just ignore any emotional fractures in Lahey’s son. Stiles could easily do it again, look past the choked breaths and defeated posture and wash away the practice under piping hot water.

Stiles’s knees locked half a step past Isaac. He twisted and squeezed his teammate’s shoulder. Isaac immediately recoiled like a scared animal, sliding back on the bench. Isaac wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

“What do you want?” Isaac’s voice wavered, like the extra air he used to speak louder made his throat uncomfortable. Stiles froze and Isaac leaned forward, huffing out air like his dad did when he was upset. “ _What,_ Stiles?”

“Nothing. Nothing, just— can I try something?” Isaac blinked, like he had a thousand possibilities lined up and Stiles gently pulling him to his feet and onto the mat was not one of them. “Real quick, I promise.” By the time they were in the center of the mat, Isaac shook himself, pulling his wrist out of Stiles’s grip. Before he could say anything, Stiles spoke. “What’s your favorite song?”

Isaac’s eyebrows shot up.

“What?”

“Favorite song,” Stiles snapped his fingers in front of Isaac’s nose. “Don’t think just say it.”

“Uh,” Isaac’s eyes dropped to the floor. “I don’t know. Metallica.”

“Metallica isn’t a song and I call fucking _bullshit,”_ Stiles snapped his fingers again. “Favorite song, tell me,” he snapped his fingers when Isaac stood there, gaping like a fish. “Come on, I’m going to keep bugging you until you tell me.” Snap. “Tell me.” Snap. “Just tell me—”

“Runaway With Me!”

Isaac’s voice echoed in the empty gym, a wicked flush crawling up his neck and face.

“By Carly Rae Jepsen?” Stiles didn’t wait for an answer, already typing it into Spotify. “It’s pretty awesome.” He ignored Isaac’s muttered, _but it’s for girls,_ and cranked up the volume. “No offense, dude, but when I watch you do floor routines it looks like you’re being tortured. I think it’s bullshit that we can’t play music during practice but guess what, practice is over.” Stiles bobbed his head to the beat. “It’s a _good song.”_

Dancing to the song was easy, trying to get Isaac to dance with him was not.

“Stiles,” he caught Isaac’s lips twitching into a fleeting smile, “come on, be serious.”

“I am serious. I just want you to try dancing to it, okay? And just… feel the song and I think you’ll be able to get higher than me on your jumps and flips.”

_That_ got Isaac’s attention. Isaac watched Stiles leap across the mat as the chorus started. It was obvious that Isaac’s transitions between routines were more practical than artistic, but when he watched Stiles’s ballet-inspired movements, he loosened up, began to move with less rigid steps. Stiles bounced on the balls of his feet and did a simple tumble twist and push off the mat, spinning in the air.

“Something like that.” Stiles shrugged, careless. “What do you think?”

Isaac paused, his shoulders slouched. Stiles watched him take a breath before running, using the momentum to keep his body in the air when he simply brought his legs over, a minimal flip that always made Stiles’s stomach clench. Isaac was taller than Stiles by a few inches, and always looked like his willowy limbs were two seconds away from getting tangled.

As Isaac kept beat with the song, a smile growing on his face, his arms and legs were less of a hinderance. He launched into the air, far enough that Stiles had to stretch his neck back to watch. He completed a triple twist, and when he landed he laughed, incredulous.

“I fucking knew it,” Stiles crowed, “I _knew_ music would help. That was amazing, you were so _high,_ I don’t know if I’ve gotten that high in my life,” Stiles sucked in air, his eyes flickering down to Isaac’s back, exposed as his shirt slipped to one side. Dark purple skin peeked out from behind the fabric. “Uh, what’s that—?”

Stiles poked the skin and Isaac jerked forward violently, spinning around. He scrambled to right his shirt.

“Isaac!” Coach Lahey’s voice boomed throughout the gym. All the color drained from Isaac’s face as Lahey stomped onto the mats, his neck still damp from the showers. “Shut that shit off.”

Stiles grabbed his phone off the floor seconds before Lahey tried to stomp on it.

“It was me, it was my phone.”

Lahey’s foot fell hard next to Stiles’s arm. His lips were pulled back into a strange grin, like he was being electrocuted, the veins in his neck bulging. Stiles saw the muscles in Lahey’s leg jump, and he thought, _oh God, he’s going to kick me._ Lahey’s nostrils flared, hot air pushing out of his nose, and then he relaxed. He turned to Isaac and squeezed the back of his son’s neck.

“Get in the truck.”

“Hey,” Stiles grabbed his bag, shoving his fingers in the busted zipper to keep his clothes from spilling out. “We need to listen to music, Mr. Lahey, it makes us perform _better.”_ Stiles followed them out into the parking lot, the cold air hitting his sweat like a hammer, his steps faltering as he hugged his bag tight to his chest for warmth, “I just _proved_ it, did you _see_ how high Isaac got?”

Lahey stopped in his tracks, his breath puffing out in the air in tight bursts. He made a quick motion with his hand that sent Isaac and Boyd running to the truck. Before Stiles could think to join them, two heavy hands fell on his shoulder.

“Stilinski,” each syllable sounded like it was made of broken glass, “are you a coach?”

“No, but—”

“ _No,_ you’re _not._ What are you?”

Stiles hated that every hitched breath made Lahey’s grin widen.

“I’m a gymnast.”

“Yes. And _barely_ one at that.” Stiles drew back as far as Lahey’s grip would allow. “Yeah, you heard me. You know that race horses are bred for generations? The best wins always come from prestige, a lineage of racers _destined_ to win. Isaac’s two brothers are winners, and so is Isaac. What’s your lineage Stiles?” Stiles thought of his mother’s wheezing goodbyes and his father’s occasional texts. “You’re a one-trick pony.”

Rough hands left Stiles’s shoulders. Tears seared down his cheeks.

“I won nationals. _Twice.”_

Lahey kept walking to his truck.

“Take the bus home tonight, the truck’s crowded.”

The engine roared and soon Stiles was left alone with the smell of exhaust in his nose and traffic in his ears.

Stiles dug around in his bag and got his TAP card. He sniffed, wiping his nose roughly with the back of his wrist, and jogged to the nearest bus stop. When he checked the schedule, he sighed. It would take at _least_ an hour for him to get back to Boyd’s house.

Los Angeles never seemed to get dark. There was always some kind of _noise_ going on, whether it was a hum of cars or shouts down a long alleyway. Stiles had never appreciated how sounds were softer, less hectic in Beacon Hills. He sat on the hard metal bench and glanced up at the sky.

Beacon Hills had stars.

He slipped his earbuds in and prepared for a long wait. The line rang once. Twice.

_“Ugh, what do you want, you little shit?”_

Once the adrenalin and anger faded, Stiles was left feeling hollow, shaky, and cold. He hadn’t done proper cool down stretches and his muscles ached. He was thirsty, he had a slight headache… and still the smile that broke across his face was a relief, a prayer answered.

“Hey, Bobby. How’s your night going?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry it took so long, I’ve been going to therapy and dealing with… family stuff. It’s still going on, and I’m trying to get better at processing stuff. But I love this fic and the story has actually helped me work through some things. I hope this update was worth the wait, I had a really fun time writing it, getting the music all lined up for routines, and I’m excited for the Olympic chapter! 
> 
> I hope that it didn’t turn too soap-opera, I’m trying to keep things realistic but… if it seemed to veer too far in one direction, let me know!
> 
> I’ll still be active on tumblr for the time being, but there are other ways to find me. [**Here**](http://mia6363.tumblr.com/about) you can see a little breakdown of other places to find me and the other things I do in relation to these fics (journals/behind the scenes, playlists, head canons). [**So click on over** ](http://mia6363.tumblr.com/about)to get the full rundown!
> 
> The art is by [**the fantastic Liz**](https://eklixio.tumblr.com/), check out her page and her instagram, she’s amazing, and the year headers were made by me :) 


	4. Olympics, 2016

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“On rings we have Stiles Stilinski from the United States. The two-time US National Champion is described by Coach Wesley Lahey as a dark horse. He is well known for his sensational floor routines, many of which have gone viral over the years.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Quick descriptions of injury, and descriptions of abuse aftermath.

Chris Argent was happiest in the winter.

When all the leaves fell, when the skies became grey, when water sharpened into ice… Chris felt _alive_ in a way he didn’t experience during the other seasons. The powdery whisper of snow under his skis, the cut of harsh wind across his face… it was exhilarating.

When he met Victoria, it was the same. Her smile was thick ice crackling on top of a lake. Every kiss numbed his body like he’d spent hours in a blizzard. Their wedding toppers were mini ice sculptures. Their first wedding anniversary was spent in the Alps.

_“We will come here every anniversary,”_ Victoria’s kisses were blood oaths, harsh promises that were terrifying and arousing. _“Every special occasion. After the Olympics. Birthdays.”_ Another kiss. _“Our children’s birthdays.”_

They had one child, and she was happiest in the summer

“Oh man.” Allison’s sneakers squeaked with every bounce on the cobblestone square. She always wore out the rubber on the balls of her feet first. She fiddled with the zipper on her USA windbreaker, the zip-zip-zip punctuating every bounce. “Oh man, oh man, oh man.”

Chris kept his hand between her shoulder blades, a soft pressure.

“You’ve seen her before, why are you nervous?”

“Dad, it’s the _Olympics._ It’s _different.”_ Allison tugged at her hair, twisting it around her fingers. “What if… what if Kira changes her mind, and thinks I’m not cool or something?”

Fatherhood was a noble title, one that Chris wore proudly, even when it hurt. There was no protecting her from some aspects of life. Sometimes pain was a necessary evil, he just hoped this was not one of those times.

“If she changes her mind, which I don’t think she will,” Chris pulled on her jacket until she looked up at him, “you have me.”

“Yeah.” Allison smiled. “I know, dad.” She bumped her head against his shoulder. “I love you.”

Those words still squeezed his heart after years of hearing them. Chris kissed the top of her head.

“Love you too, sugarsnap.”

The opening ceremony still rung in Chris’s ears, he could only imagine what Allison was going through, since she’d _walked_ in it.

“Allison!” A high-pitched shriek cut through the dull roar of mumbled conversations. “Allison, over here!”

They both turned in time to see a shorter girl waving, running through the crowd. Allison’s face went slack for a moment, an evolution of shock, relief, and adoration. She shot forward, Chris’s fingers hovering in Rio’s summer breeze as the two girls embraced. They had matching USA windbreakers, and Allison pulled the girl away from the main crowd, back toward the bench they’d staked out.

“Dad, this is Kira Yukimura, Kira this is my dad—”

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Argent.” Kira had big brown eyes that didn’t match her firm handshake. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” She twisted a little, her hand still in Chris’s, to catch the eyes of a handsome man who came up behind her. “This is my coach—”

“Peter Hale,” Peter reached over Kira’s head to shake Chris’s hand. “The pleasure is all mine.”

Chris shook Peter’s hand, firm but friendly.

“Chris Argent.”

The usual stages of recognition reflected in Peter’s eyes. Chris knew his name brought on various labels.

_Winter Olympian._

_Biathlete._

_Gold Medalist._

_Husband to French Olympic athlete, Victoria Mays._

_Divorced._

_Single father._

There was a strange dance practiced at tournaments and major sporting events, and the Olympics were no different. Coaches would meet, then step back and let their athletes talk, make friends, make enemies, and wait to be called upon. They would always be within reach, but they gave their kids room to move on their own.

Before Chris could take that customary half-step back, Allison grabbed his arm.

“Dad-Dad-Dad,” she rushed out with a wide grin and shining eyes, “remember that mini-ESPN documentary I made you watch, about the gymnast from California? Stiles Stilinski and his coach Robert Finstock?”

Kira had grabbed Peter, keeping him still as she rocked on her heels.

“I’m obsessed. Allison got me hooked on him, I… follow his Instagram religiously.”

Peter hummed, his lazy smile dripping with _I’ve heard this exact enthusiasm and words a million times but I’m not tired_ veneer. Allison showed her phone to Chris as she leaned on Kira, the sound of R&B coming from Kira’s phone and the slap of feet on a mat. Chris’s memory was jogged to the short documentary in question, about a kid who came out of nowhere, from no gymnastics background or athletic history, and the bizarre Coach who molded him from age four.

“Is it too weird to try and find him?” Allison stretched onto the tips of her toes, grounding herself with a firm grip on Kira’s shoulder. “I mean, we’re all Americans. We can say it’s a patriotism thing.”

Kira grabbed Allison’s arm and pulled her close, like she was her favorite stuffed animal and there was a thundering storm outside.

“Oh my God,” Kira’s voice was thin, like reeds in the wind, but Chris still heard her clear as a bell. “There they are.”

She didn’t have to point, it was easy to see who she was talking about.

Chris noticed the Coach first. Not Wesley Lahey, but the Coach who had been with Stiles for most of his life. He had wild black hair, a complimentary cup of shitty coffee in his hand, and an old green jacket with various patches on the elbows and back, all with different patterns and materials. He kept his coffee close to his chest, which was a good idea since being jostled and shoved was a part of the post-Olympic opener madness. He had a deep frown, the lines in his face severe as he waded through the crowd.

Stiles Stilinski swam in his USA windbreaker, his cheeks red as he held onto his Coach’s arm. His mouth moved fast, and his Coach nodded, saying something back that made Stiles laugh.

“Um,” Allison bit her lip, looking to Kira who had a similar nervous expression on her face. “Is it okay if we, um…”

Kira’s grip on Allison tightened, but both girls were frozen in place. Chris only waited for a few seconds before he stuck two fingers into his mouth. He sent a sharp whistle through the crowd.

“Stilinski!” The kid froze and his Coach quickly dodged so his coffee didn’t spill down his chest “Finstock!” Allison squeaked out a weak _Dad,_ a warning that he ignored as he waved. “Come on over and say hello!”

Chris met Victoria Mays when he was twenty-three years old on the Alps, both competing in a biathlon. He’d been young, eager, and the word _love_ sent sweeping optimism and excitement through his stomach.

He knew Victoria through her reputation as an athlete, her French pedigree, and from gossip that promised she was as sharp and cold as fractured ice.

Chris met Robert Finstock when he was forty-seven years old at the 2016 Rio Summer Olympics. Chris was a single father, well-practiced in the interview and publicity circuit, and _love_ was something for young people.

He knew Finstock through the short documentary that followed Stiles Stilinski through his hometown. He knew Finstock as a series of bleeps that censored his foul mouth, the sparse gym that was his domain, and a quiet shot of him in his “office.” It was the last shot of the documentary, with Stiles leaning on the desk, Finstock going through his ledgers, with countless medals glimmering on any spare space of wall, all belonging to Stiles. It was that last shot where Allison would always rush to hit _REPLAY._

Chris didn’t feel anything more than the usual excitement that came from the Olympics, and the nervous flutter in his stomach had been buzzing because it was Allison’s first time competing. His lips curled with amusement from Kira and Allison’s embarrassed, betrayed expressions that painted their faces. Finstock and Stiles had seen them and were doing their best to extract themselves from the herds of athletes heading to the after-parties.

“Not to be an asshole or anything,” Robert Finstock moved with unexpected grace that didn’t match the gravel in his voice. “But do we know you?”

Chris’s first thought about meeting Finstock in person was _he looks like he’s been eating lemons for his entire life._

His perma-frown was painted onto his face, an impersonal grimace. Stiles raised his eyebrows, his arms crossed. Not upset or defensive, but _ready._

“Not at all.” Chris smiled and hit his open palm against Allison’s shoulder. “My daughter is a fan of yours. She wanted to say hello, athlete-to-athlete.”

Both Stiles and Finstock’s shoulders drew back, a hiccup of tension bleeding into shock.

_“Really?”_ Stiles loosened his arms, his fingers twisting in his windbreaker’s sleeves. “I, um,” he glanced up at Finstock, who mouthed _I don’t fucking know,_ “Oh. Uh,” Stiles smiled, the nervous kind of smile kids would wear when they had to do a class presentation. “Hi. I’m Stiles.”

Kira and Allison were still silent, until Chris cleared his throat and gently prodded Allison’s side.

“Allison Argent. I’m competing in archery”

She shook Stiles’s hand, quick and firm. Kira was next.

“Kira Yukimura,” she held up her gym bag, heavy with equipment, “fencing. We follow you on Instagram. Your last competition in Salt Lake City was incredible.”

Chris watched the kid back into Finstock, which wasn’t hard to do, he was right behind him. Stiles jumped at the contact before taking a deep breath.

“Thanks. Um,” he snapped his fingers, his cheeks red, “show me some of your shit— I mean stuff, you know,” he fumbled with his hands, “competitions and stuff.”

The three kids crowded in each other’s space, phones out, shrieking and laughing within seconds. The small knot in Chris’s chest eased. Peter bumped him, then reached across Chris to hit Finstock’s arm.

“Come on,” Peter jerked his head to the side, “let the kids get to know each other. There are a few parties they can go to.”

Stiles glanced up from Allison’s phone.

“Parties?”

He sounded a little scared, a little excited.

“Yeah,” Allison looped her arm through his, “they’re mostly an excuse to jump around and dance.” She smiled, getting more comfortable by the minute. “You’re a good dancer, right, Stiles?”

Stiles smacked his hand on Finstock’s stomach.

“I learned from the best dancer I know.”

Finstock rolled his eyes.

“I’m the only dancer you know, smart ass.” Before Stiles could open his mouth, Finstock checked his shoulder, the motion made to look rougher than it was. “You go have fun, I’ve got my phone. I’ll stake out one of these benches and drink some coffee-coffee.”

Stiles swayed on his feet, toward the crowd, and then back to Finstock.

“You sure—?”

“I’m sure. Go show them what dancing is about.”

Chris kissed Allison on the cheek, Peter gave Kira a high-five after he took her bags, and Stiles knocked his fist against Finstock’s shoulder before pulling his fingers into a thumbs-up. Then they were gone, running into the crowd and following other American athletes.

There was always a bittersweetness to the departure, a reminder that Allison was growing up. _Grown up,_ Chris reminded himself. Pride swallowed the bitterness, because God his little Alley-Cat growing into a confident young woman and… Chris was so happy he didn’t know what to do with all of the feelings that made his bones ache.

When he glanced over he saw Finstock struggling the same way. He could tell by the shadows that deepened the lines of his face, the way his grip tightened on his cup of coffee.

“Want to sit with us?”

Chris was thrown back to being a kid in middle-school, asking to sit at a crowded table. Finstock shot him a surprised glance.

“Uh, sure? If it’s not an obligation or anything. I can keep myself occupied.”

Finstock presented Chris with an elegant out, with a small shrug while he blew on his coffee.

“No obligation. Come on,” Peter had grabbed a bench already, waiting with Kira’s bags by his feet. “Time passes faster as a group.” The other man laughed like he knew that was bullshit, but he walked with Chris anyway, taking a sip of his coffee. “Oh, the coffee is—”

“Dogshit, oh my fucking God,” Finstock sputtered.

Peter snorted as Chris sat next to him, making room for Finstock.

“Rule one, don’t drink the free coffee. It’s an affront to God.”

“Well,” Finstock drawled, taking another wince-inducing sip, “affront to God or no, I need to stay awake.”

It was 2016, Chris was in Rio, and at the time he was being kind to a stranger, to a man he knew through edited mini-documentaries and pictures of the American gymnast upstart. When Chris leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, he didn’t think anything of the man at his side. He was keeping someone company.

A light flutter buzzed in his chest when Finstock coughed around another slug of coffee, Peter laughing on Chris’s other side.

He didn’t know that the shitty Olympics coffee would be the first in a series of coffees, that this conversation would be the start of something new and important.

::::

Every footstep creaked on the church’s ancient floorboards as Finstock met a few nervous gazes. He followed the stragglers to a small room with cheap plastic folding chairs and coffee. He went for the coffee, hoping that if he had something to hold in his hands that they’d stop shaking. If he had coffee, maybe his skin would stop feeling so sticky, and maybe he wouldn’t stick out like a sore thumb.

His heart thudded in his chest as he sat down in one of the chairs, staring into his cup as more people walked in, saying hi, high-fiving. People of all walks of life made their way in, nothing like the hyperbolic after-school specials that still haunted Finstock.

For too long he’d been fine with how much he drank because he wasn’t one of _those_ drunks, a loud, piss-stained embarrassment, a ghoul that wandered from place to place unseen as people raced to avert their eyes. How many mornings had started with _I’m not one of those_ as he poured whiskey into his coffee, anticipating the sting of it numbing his nerves.

Numb. That had been the sensation he adored.

And why shouldn’t he? He had it down to a science, a precise distribution of alcohol throughout the day would make the world a little less bleak, a little more bearable. For years, Finstock didn’t want to feel, didn’t want to do anything more than the bare minimum to exist. Dance in the morning, eat something greasy in the afternoon, and pass out on the couch watching reruns of Seinfeld.

His skin felt too tight, like it was trying to squeeze his muscles into jelly. The chatter died down and someone got up to lead, reading a passage that everyone else had memorized. It was Finsotck’s first time hearing it. It wouldn’t be the last.

_You don’t have to say shit if you don’t want to,_ he reminded himself. All of this was _voluntary,_ and if he wanted to sit and listen, that was fine.

His throat choked around the word _fine._ Fine wasn’t good enough.

He cleared his throat, forcing himself to make eye contact with the group leader.

“My name is Robert, you can, uh, call me Bobby if you want.”

A sea of weary but smiling faces answered him.

“Hello, Bobby.”

The first step was always the scariest, the most terrifying, and this was the biggest first step of his life. He swallowed past sweat, bile, and roaring anxiety, and continued.

“This is a long time coming. Should have… been a long time ago, but I’m here now. I’ve been sober for,” he checked his watch, a hoarse laugh escaping him, “eight days. Shit.” He sighed into a strained smile. “I want to get better. I want to live longer, because… I’m tired of being numb. Numb sucks, feeling things, even terrible shit, is worth it.”

Polite claps punctated the end of his introduction and he sank back into his chair, breathing like he’d completed a full ballet routine.

He listened for the rest of the night, focusing on his breathing when his throat tightened, when so many similar stories, shared characteristics, came forward. He was clammy when it was over. He took a cup of coffee for the road.

“Bobby,” a woman came up to him after as he lingered by the door, not wanting to be the first one to leave. “Thanks for speaking today. You didn’t have to feel obligated, if you were nervous.”

“Yeah, I know.” Finstock hid behind anxious grimace behind his coffee. “I needed to.”

She held out her hand.

“I’m Judy.” Her hands were delicate, wrinkles softening the callouses on her palm. “Will we see you next week?”

“Oh, no. I’m going to be in Rio for two weeks, so I’ll be back… maybe in a month, it depends on how that goes.” Judy’s eyes widened and Bobby waved his hand. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you when I get back.”

Judy smiled, small and cautious.

“I look forward to it.”

It was a long time coming, Finstock meant that, but he didn’t say that he only got his ass in gear because he realized that he wasn’t so indifferent about dying anymore. Death was something he shrugged off, why worry about something inevitable? He was a grump with a gym in the middle of nowhere California. Who was going to lose sleep if one weird person was no longer around?

He lost that edge, that sharp apathy, and it was replaced with heavy, aching, and tedious fucking feelings and repsonisbility that he wouldn’t trade for the world.

Two suitcases were in the back of his truck. He had his passport and papers ready, and he had one stop before he was going to do a red-eye drive to Los Angeles. His sneakers crunched on familiar gravel, his fingers skimming over the flaking paint on the mailbox, before he knocked three times on the Sheriff’s door.

Claudia usually answered, always insisting he come in, hungry for any pictures, videos, and stories Finstock had of his weekend trips to Los Angeles to visit Stiles, picking up and dropping off school work like an inefficient postman. That night, it was the Sheriff that shouldered out of the door, closing it behind him before Finstock could so much as catch a glimpse of the hall and kitchen.

“Oh.” Finstock swayed on his feet. He wished he had something in his hands, a barrier between him and the thin-lipped grimace that was always aimed his way whenever Claudia wasn’t in the room. “Hi. Just wanted to swing by and see if you wanted to, I don’t know, send anything with me? Cookies or,” Finstock shrugged, uncomfortable under the Sheriff’s unblinking stare, “a postcard.”

“A postcard?”

Noah said the word like it left an awful taste in his mouth.

“You know, a message or something.”

It was too dark to tell if the Sheriff was breathing. He was an imposing shadow, no features, just a stark shape against the door.

“Tell him,” a croaked voice punctated the dreary click of the doorknob twisting, “that we’re proud of him. No matter what happens, medal or no medals.”

Finstock wondered if Noah noticed how quiet Beacon Hills had become without Stiles. Finstock turned up the volume of the radio in the gym, devoured books he picked up from a thrift store, and drummed his fingers on any surface that could provide background noise. He wondered if Noah felt a deeper ache, a heavier emptiness that yawned loudest when he was alone in his shitty kitchen.

“Okay.” Finstock shoulders were twisted, broken metal, stiff and uncomfortable. “No problem.”

Stiles said he would call every day, but he had to amend that promise after the first week. Between curfew and practice, he was lucky to send voice messages as he waited for the bus. Finstock saved every one.

LAX was a madhouse, people desperate to get to their destination without making eye contact. Finstock had been told which terminal to go to, in a curt phone call from Coach Lahey. He was given a bulleted list of luggage requirements and allowances. Finstock almost stabbed his palm in a rush to get a pen ready, scrawling on the back of a receipt. His knees shook, his stomach was knotted, and a bizarre cloud stretched in his chest.

He’d watched Stiles leap and bound through medals and ribbons, but it still felt unreal that _this was happening_ until he saw Stiles.

He was in Finstock’s old windbreaker, with a few new holes at the sleeves, a few odd pulls and seams that hung loose across Stiles’s broad shoulders.

The kid was bouncing on his feet, his right arm hugging tight across his stomach while the other held two stuffed duffle bags. He craned to look down at the long stretch of terminals. Finstock waited for Stiles to turn, to check the opposite way, a crooked smile on his face as _finally,_ the kid turned around.

Months of silence and cold fled from his body the moment Stiles flung himself into a hug. Finstock hugged him tight, information overload making his body lag to catch up with new information. Details like how he could feel Stiles’s ribs through his shirt, how Stiles’s fingers pulled the fabric of his jacket to the point of tearing a few seams, and how his smile was skeletal.

_Hollow._

“Oof,” Finstock managed, unable to stop his own smile from growing. “How are you feeling, punk?”

“Like I’m going to fucking puke,” Stiles responded with zero sarcasm, his voice cracking around the edges. “I’m not going to puke. Probably.”

Finstock laughed, ignoring the stares from Stiles’s team and Coach Lahey. He was used to being the sand in the gears, the lumpy ball of lint that wouldn’t leave.

Pins and needles gnawed at Finstock’s ass from the eight hour drive, his breath was a stale mix of coffee and sobriety, and his hands were shaking like it was the longest Thursday of his life. It was Wednesday. He squeezed Stiles tight, drawing back to hold his gaze until Stiles’s smile reached his eyes.

“You and me both. Come on, you’re drinking orange juice at the _least._ Glucose can tide you over until you get your appetite back.”

Stiles rolled his eyes.

“Nag, nag, nag.”

Finstock pinched Stiles’s side, earning a familiar squeal. It wasn’t at its usual pitch and energy that Stiles brought to everything, but it did chase some of the shadows out from under his eyes. The international security line was packed. Finstock quadruple-checked that he had his ticket and passport ready.

“I drive all the way down here to sit on a twenty-hour flight—”

“Actually, it’s twenty-three hours.”

“—that’s what I said,” Finstock ignored Stiles’s snort, “just for you to sass me.”

One of the kids from the team, Danny, if Finstock wasn’t mistaken, turned around. His gaze wasn’t annoyed, accusatory, or questioning. He looked, long enough for Stiles’s shoulders to slump. Finstock never noticed how isolating silence could be until he saw how quiet Lahey kept the group. Finstock’s throat tightened, and his tongue ached for a drink.

He looped his arm through Stiles’s instead.

He tried not to think about how Stiles’s hugs had deteriorated over the months he’d been away from home. He tried not to notice that Stiles hadn’t once reached for his earbuds, eager to show Finstock new music. _Please let it be worth it,_ Finstock prayed.

Stiles bumped his temple against Finstock’s shoulder.

As the airport chatter rose, a crashing wave of roaring conversations and announcements, Finstock was able to make out a faint hum, coming from Stiles’s crooked, upturned lips.

::::

The watery, mealy _mess_ that was the complimentary coffee did little to ease the buzzing worry in Finstock’s stomach, but he kept drinking it anyway.

He hoped Allison and Kira were as sweet as they seemed. Their enthusiastic admiration was bubbling and contagious, and Finstock had been surprised for a few seconds, but Stiles hadn’t seemed to snap out of his shock. His steps were off-rhythm when Allison looped her arm through his, leading him with other athletes, a few turning to catch a glance. Recognizing him.

_Please show him that athletes can be kind,_ Finstock pleaded to whoever or whatever was listening. When Evelyn had first floated the idea of the Olympics, Finstock thought it would feel greater, lighter, and not like the last stop of an arduous, back-breaking journey. He never wanted Stiles to forget what it felt like to be happy.

“They’ll be fine.” A coarse voice pulled Finstock out from his thoughts. He glanced at Allison’s dad (Chris was his name, right?) and did his best to return the smile. “Allison’s got a good head on her shoulders.”

“Kira as well,” the other man leaned out so he could look at the two of them. He was handsome in an _I put effort into my appearance_ look that Finstock was used to seeing in magazines and billboards. “Of the two of us, she’s much more responsible.”

Finstock raised his eyebrows and was grateful that Chris voiced his concerns first.

“I’m not sure if that’s complimentary to Kira or not.” A hoarse laugh escaped Finstock against his will, and he saw how it made Chris’s spine straighten and Peter’s eyes narrow. Chris’s smile grew more crooked, less practiced. “From the stories I’ve heard, that’s not saying much.”

Peter laughed. The air had chilled enough that a light cloud floated from his lips. He tilted his head back like he knew his V-neck was flattering.

“Fair enough. Summer athletes are notorious for being hot-tempered. We can’t all be champions of ice.”

During one of his ballet troupe’s international tours, Finstock had been worried when they’d gone from France, Germany, Russia, and Italy, that the language barriers would be too great for them to communicate. He’d stood with his fellow dancers, tense at the first performance with another troupe, and had breathed the same sigh of relief when they learned to use dancing as their universal language. Just because Finstock couldn’t speak Russian didn’t mean he couldn’t respect the precision that came with their dancing styles.

He liked the Olympics for the same reason, watching athletes from all over the world rub elbows, able to grow close because of their craft.

Chris and Peter had the same thing, that rapport despite just meeting. Finstock took a sip of coffee, watching how Peter’s shoulders opened while Chris leaned back, his spine curling relaxing into a comfortable slouch from it’s military-esque posture. Peter had been a fencer, and he mimed a precise repose, while Chris rubbed his hands over his knuckles, remembering the cold from the winter biathlon. Finstock hoped that Stiles was having a similar experience.

“Let’s see, for Olympic medals I have,” Peter drew in a breath, wiggling his fingers. “Four gold and two silver.”

Chris smiled, Finstock saw how it made his cheek swell.

“Three gold, two silver.”

Peter nodded, his smirk losing its handsome charm but Finstock liked the expression better.

“Nice.”

Finstock was a wildlife photographer, quiet and so close to a species he’d never understand but could appreciate from a distance. He thought of Stiles having these kind of conversations over the years, and affection slithered tight around his heart. He fiddled with his cup, picking at the flimsy paper, when he realized that the silence between Chris and Peter wasn’t a pleasant lull. He glanced up to see them both looking at him.

“Oh!” Finstock laughed, nervous. He had no idea why the next words out of his mouth were, “I’m ten days sober.”

When the wide-eyed silence grew to be too much for him, he took a sip of his dogshit coffee. Chris cleared his throat.

“That’s… good.”

Finstock grimaced.

“Uh, what I mean is, I’m not,” he waved his hand in their direction, “like you. I don’t have medals and shit. I’m just his… coach. Well, I was his coach when he was a kid. He’s got a real one now.”

If he were younger he would have been in knots over the admission. The _humiliation_ of working for sobriety. Finstock wasn’t younger. He was fifty-two, tired, and over-caffeinated. Life was uncomfortable, and he didn’t have the time or effort to pretend any different. He slouched, offering up a thin smile, a silent, _what do you think of that?_ Peter looked away. Chris didn’t.

“You’re his coach.” Finstock tilted his head, a lazy raise of his eyebrows prompted Chris to keep talking. “Allison had me watch you and Stiles’s ESPN special—”

“Aw Christ,” Finstock squeezed one eye shut, a bashful, sour, “that fuckin’ thing.”

Chris ignored him, which was for the best.

“He wouldn’t have been a gymnast if it wasn’t for you.”

That documentary had been a weird experience. He thought the crew was full of shit when they claimed he wouldn’t notice them after a while, but it was true. When the special came out, it was obvious that he’d forgotten, because he never hesitated to curse, laugh, and goad Stiles into dancing. Finstock’s life plan, for the longest time, had been to make money, drink, and die whenever. He had no dreams of recognition. He hated the brief familiarity he got from the liquor store, so an ESPN special was never in Finstock’s orbit until a camera crew was at the gym, asking to get B-roll shots and wanting to mic him.

He agreed to it because of the shocked happiness on Stiles’s face, like he couldn’t believe it was happening. Finstock was just along for the ride, or so he had thought.

Watching himself on television… being seen as someone more than a booze-hound with a loud mouth was new. Finstock was a real person, and he hoped, with time, he would be a better person.

“I listened to what he said. Fuck, I mean, it’s not like I did anything special. He said he wanted to be like Spiderman.” Peter and Chris looked at him like he was nuts. Finstock rolled his eyes. “The gymnasts he saw on tv. He was four and a half, to him they were like Spiderman. We were watching the Olympics and I listened, that’s all.” Finstock rubbed his hand over his chest, curling his shoulders for a moment before he forced himself to straighten his back. He finished the coffee in an awful, final swig. When he finished, Chris had… a weird, warm smile on his face. Finstock’s stomach clenched. “What is it?”

Chris rubbed his hand over his mouth, his fingers pulling on his five o’clock shadow.

“It’s funny, Allison burned through fairy tales quicker than her mother and I could buy them. I resorted to old Greek mythology textbooks from college and… after the Odyssey she was obsessed with the bow and arrow.” He laughed, a hoarse chuckle that was like a creaky step that led to a familiar porch. Finstock’s grip on his shitty paper cup slipped. “She said, ‘Dad, I need a bow and arrow, because I want my wife to know it’s me when I battle her other suitors.”

Chris grinned, the first time Finstock had seen him do it, and he liked the look better than the practiced pleasant, benign expressions Chris had been hiding behind. It deepened the lines around his eyes and mouth, his eyes squeezed shut and patches of pink blot across his neck and face. _People always look their best when they’re happy and not trying to be pretty about it,_ Finstock thought with a wry smile.

“That’s the cutest shit I’ve ever heard,” Finstock rasped.

Chris shrugged.

“Wanting to be Spiderman is pretty cute.”

In a dizzying rush of pride and actual excitement, Finstock fumbled with his phone.

“You think that’s cute? Check this out,” he swiped his thumb, scrolling all the way down his pictures because he made sure, transfer after transfer, that certain photos made it. Once he hit the bottom, he found one of his favorites. Halloween, 2005. “He insisted I go as Jonah Jameson.”

The picture was a little blurry, Stiles’s grin was the most in-focus part of the picture, his red cloth mask rolled up so he could smile, the cheap, plastic jack-o-lantern basket held high. Finstock had to dig in his closet for a white button-up, then drive to a cigar shop forty minutes north only to get a dirty look when he said, “eh, get me whatever’s cheapest.” Holding the cigar in his mouth tasted like shit, but it was worth it when Stiles laughed himself to tears.

Some mom had passed and asked, “want me to take a picture,” and the result was Stiles’s blurred grin and Finstock waving his free arm around, the other on Stiles’s shoulder.

“Wow, you weren’t kidding.” Chris shifted his weight, his shoulder pushing against Finstock’s as he stared at the picture, a wry smile on his face. “Funny how much kids want to dress up like their heroes.” Chris had a picture ready within seconds. “She was the only kid in her kindergarten class that didn’t gave a costume off the rack.” The picture was nice, in focus, in the foyer of a home that would make Pottery Barn proud. Allison was so tiny, with chubby pink cheeks and a cute grin. Chris was on one side, and her mother was on the other. “She was Athena up until she stopped going trick-or-treating.”

Finstock whistled, ghost-like and warbling. Sometimes there was nothing to say, no words to really… show how great a picture could be. Even through a picture of a polaroid, there was no mistaking that Allison was a happy kid. A happy kid with happy, loving parents. It wouldn’t be appropriate for Finstock to say how lucky she was to have that or to comment on how nice their house was. Words like that, no matter how much he meant them, always sounded condescending and slimy coming from his mouth.

He glanced over and saw that Peter was leaning over, to get a look at little Allison with her bow and gold vine leaves placed on her head.

“Aw, shit, Peter. Do you have any pictures?” Finstock squeezed his left hand into a fist to keep it from shaking. Being a functional sober adult meant speaking to _other_ functional sober adults, and the experience was agonizing. For a long time he couldn’t stand it, the endless nieceities, rules, pussy-footing around a conversation so nothing of meaning was said. The one thing that made it bearable was whiskey’s smooth, numbing sting. “I didn’t mean to,” he waved his steadier hand, “mono—monopoly— monopolize the uh. Sharing. Time.”

Good God he sounded like he was sweating through his first Show and Tell. He rubbed his palms over his knees, like if he pressed hard enough he could push some social grace into his idiot skull.

“No,” Peter shook his head, “I’m not— I’m not her father. I’ve only been coaching her for two and a half years.” He smirked, too confident to be self-deprecating. “Her mother needed a coach who’d get Kira to let loose a little. My main job is to be a bad influence and improve her footwork.” He reached over and tapped on the wobbly edge of Finstock’s shitty paper cup. “I know where to get good coffee. Come on,” he got up, “let’s stretch our legs.”

Chris stood and Finstock hurried to follow, the words, _“oh, I’m not a dad,”_ getting lost somewhere between his second breath and the wry, what-are-you-gonna-do smile from Chris.

::::

The understanding of the word “party” had changed for Stiles over the years.

When he was little, parties were always bigger and louder at other houses. The few birthday parties he went to that weren’t Scott’s always had bulging goodie bags. Parties at Scott’s house were low-key, just the two of them, a pizza, root beer, and a stack of DVDs from the library.

Parties at the gym were after-hours, Stiles, Bobby, and sometimes Greenberg would blast the radio and dance until they fell over. When Stiles couldn’t keep his eyes open they’d head back to Bobby’s house. They had a routine, which was brushing their teeth together, elbows knocking whenever one of them spit. The next step was Bobby digging out spare pajamas while Stiles filled up two glasses of water at the sink. The “party” aspect was the dancing, but Stiles’s real satisfaction came after, both of them slumping on the couch and talking over muted reality television.

He heard about high school parties where things got loud, someone threw up after one light beer, and the gossip of who made out with who would circulate the school until the next wild night. Hearing about it second-hand made it less tangible, and he assumed those kinds of parties were only in movies.

“I can switch to a quarter if it’s too hard,” Kira hid her laughter behind her hand. “I think I still carry a half-dollar in my bag—”

“No.” Stiles hated how much he was sweating just from standing, crouched, with a training foil in his hand. “We don’t need a fucking quarter, we can _do this.”_

Kira led them to a ballroom off the south side of the quad. Music played inside, bright bubbling pop that Stiles had missed for months. When Kira opened the doors a wave of heat and laughter hit Stiles in the face like a mirthy fog. He was warmed instantly as Kira waved to a group of girls in the far corner, and introduced him and Allison.

“This is my friend Allison, she’s competing in archery, and this is Stiles, he’s a gymnast—”

One of the fencers with shocking purple hair chewed gum and rolled her eyes.

“We know, you made us watch his special like twenty times.”

Kira had listed off their names but Stiles was too keyed up to remember anything. He kept his smile steady and Kira set up a thin rubber stand and a dime. Within minutes, Stiles had sweat dripping down his back and he was grinding his teeth as he failed to hit the dime with the foil _again._

“This is impossible.” Stiles handed the foil to Allison. “Look,” Stiles gestured wildly at Allison after she missed, “an _Olympic marksman_ can’t hit it. This is harassment.”

Stiles couldn’t help but fizzle off into laughter, shocked at how failing at an exercise was making him feel giddy instead of the spiraling misery. Kira held out her hand and Allison tossed her the foil. Kira caught it, her smile annoyingly zen. Stiles stepped back, sweeping his arm out in an _after you, your highness_ motion.

Kira raised the foil. Allison shivered next to him. He didn’t blame her. Kira’s stance melted, going from a giggling party-goer to an Olympic fencer. Her shoulders lowered, she crouched, and _struck._ Stiles wished he had a camera that could slow her down, the kind they’d use in Planet Earth. He could picture the commentary:

_“Look at Kira Yukimura hit the coin like a viper, sending it flying within seconds,”_ David Attenborough’s voice would purr out of the speakers as a delicate string piece played, _“decimating any claims of the exercise being impossible.”_

Her teammates whistled and clapped their hands. Stiles waited for snide comments and veiled insults. None came. They were smiling without a hint of malice on their faces. Stiles was relieved or unnerved.

“Do that again.” Allison crossed her arms with a breathless smile. “Maybe you got lucky.”

Kira’s lips pulled into a slick smirk that made her look like a spitting image of her coach.

“Sure thing, Allison.” Not only did Kira hit the dime again, but all her teammates did, going in rounds before Kira was pushing up Allison’s sleeves. “What kind of exercises do you do? Your arms are _jacked.”_

The floor hummed to the beat, tickling the bottom of Stiles’s sneakers. After Allison was done flexing, it was Stiles’s turn to stretch and lunge into liquid stretches that made Kira lose balance more than a few times. Laughter bubbled in Stiles’s throat for the first time in months. He giggled as Kira bowled over her teammate, he laughed as Allison melted into a yoga pose with a triumphant, “I got you all beat!”

By the time Stiles hit the dime, his shirt was drenched, his jacket folded on the floor, and he couldn’t feel his face he was grinning so hard. The song on someone’s laptop switched, and Allison grabbed his arm and squeezed.

“I love this song!”

The ballroom had a dance floor, where various athletes from different groups would go to dance if it was a song they liked. When Kira followed Allison, her team was right behind her, already bobbing to the beat. Stiles hadn’t heard the song before because Coach Lahey forbid music. Stiles couldn’t remember the last time he danced, but the moment Allison turned back to him and smiled, it was like not a second had passed.

Kira tossed her hair as directed, throwing her hand out, fingers splayed as “check my nails” bounced out of the speakers. Kira bumped Stiles’s shoulder, her eyes sparkling and lips stretched into a grin as she asked, “Baby, how you feelin’?”

Allison and the rest of the fencing team answered, a joyous, “Feelin’ good as Hell!”

A dizzying feeling spun around Stiles’s head, like he’d rolled down a hill and stood up, swaying on his feet. Instead of feeling sick or scared, he was overflowing, bubbling with a careless joy that he’d forgotten. _“Grinning is for idiots,”_ Coach Lahey would spit at practice, _“and I don’t coach idiots.”_

Lahey had said it so much, so often, that Stiles had started to believe it, started to think that a part of growing up was losing what it was to _feel good._ He threw his hand out with the next line, singing with the girls and spinning toward something he’d lost.

The moment the cold night air hit his skin, washing over his aching arms and legs, he forgot how he’d danced, only that it had come as naturally as breathing.

He was loose-limbed, his skin buzzing like static had replaced his blood. His fingers were numb as he got a text from Bobby. He showed his phone to Allison and Kira.

“Bobby says they’re outside a coffee place in the eastern quad.”

They walked in hushed, tired silence, sweat chilling on their skin, their ears ringing from the music, and their calves aching from the hour spent on the dance floor. He was exhausted, he smelled sour like he’d done a workout and didn’t have time to shower… but he didn’t care. Allison’s hair stuck to the side of her face, Kira’s teeth chattered, and Stiles realized that most teenagers _feel like this all the time._ The euphoric sensation of being rooted in the present. Stiles couldn’t care less about tomorrow, and he wasn’t thinking about the months he’d spent training. He basked in the sound of the three of them sounded humming different songs and giggling.

They turned a corner and Stiles heard Bobby chuckle.

He heard the dry rasp that appeared when it was way too late, but Bobby was staying up for his sake. They’d talk themselves hoarse on those nights, one joke blurring into another until one of them passed out mid-sentence. Stiles hadn’t heard that sound since he left for training… but he knew it anywhere, could hear the breathless inhale of it and would know exactly where he’d heard it before.

Lahey said he’d drill smiles and fun out of them, and for months… Stiles thought he’d succeeded.

He knew that Coach Lahey had failed as he broke out into a run, that he’d never win, not as long as Stiles’s brain kept firing off signals, he’d never forget, he’d never stop feeling the syrupy, heavy, sometimes agonizing affection for the people he loved most. He slammed into Bobby, God, Stiles knew that he’d gained muscle and he needed to be more careful—

Bobby hauled him closer, his coffee cup hitting the ground so he could catch him.

“Had fun?” Bobby pulled back and his tired smile widened into a grin at whatever he saw on Stiles’s face. “Good.”

Stiles had a thousand questions in his throat fighting for airtime. Did Stiles take too long? Were Peter and Chris cool enough? Was Bobby bored with them? Stiles’s throat clicked.

“I’ve got an awesome song to show you when we get back to the lodging.”

Allison hummed the one he was thinking of under her breath with a weary smile. Stiles made sure he was following them on Instagram, and took care to note when their events were. He hugged them, and when Allison pulled back with a, “I better hear you cheering for me tomorrow,” he realized that it had been the first time he’d hugged someone his age in a year.

After a series of boisterous goodbyes and handshakes to Chris and Peter, it was just Stiles and Bobby, squinting at the small map they were given. They passed other parties and athletes stumbling their way back home. Bobby bumped Stiles’s shoulder.

“So,” he pushed open the door to their lodging. “What was it like?”

Stiles shook out his hands, something he did when he had to work to find the words.

“Oh man, oh man,” Stiles vibrated with the memory of it, his mouth dry as they swiped their keycard across their lock. “I’d forgotten how fun dancing is, how wild is that? Of course it’s fun, it’s the best thing ever, but… I don’t know, Bobby, it’d been so long and this song played— oh right, Allison said she’d send it to me, you gotta hear it.”

He snorted at the string of messages from Allison and Kira, filled with emojis, links, and exclamation points. He clicked on the link and waited, not caring about the data charges because it was worth it for three and a half minutes of a song.

Piano and a woman’s velvety, smiling voice opened the song. He met Bobby’s bewildered smile, and Stiles knew it was late, he knew that they both needed sleep. That didn’t stop them both from dancing, putting the last of their energy into throwing their heads back, warbling, “good as hell,” until their throats couldn’t take it anymore.

::::

Stiles had been nervous during his first competition.

He worried about the camcorder not working, he worried that he’d mess up to his favorite song, he worried that other kids would be able to tell that Bobby and him and spent over an hour in Models trying to figure out which singlets would match the competition specifications.

The first competition was like ripping off a band-aid. Stiles felt the strangest sense of peace when he’d step into the gymnasium, the heat from cheers and the impassive looks from judges sliding off his skin like oil. He learned how to center himself, thinking about his music and what him and Finstock would get at the diner afterwards.

Stiles wouldn’t have to stop at Lahey’s command at competitions. He wouldn’t have to grind his teeth through musicless routines. Competitions were the only place where he could express himself, even if it was just for a few minutes, Stiles took whatever peace he could get.

The Olympics were not the same.

Stiles’s arms ached, sweat poured down his back, but he didn’t let himself waver as he drew his legs up, the rings held tight in his hands. He was hyper-aware of every cramp, every tense and release of sinew. The crowd murmured, a dull roar as they watched him and other competitors make the rounds. A few cheers for various countries cut over the announcer pointing out which competitor was from which country.

He drew his legs up, held, and tried to ignore his own name.

_“On rings we have Stiles Stilinski from the United States. The two-time US National Champion is described by Coach Wesley Lahey as a dark horse. He is well known for his sensational floor routines, many of which have gone viral over the years.”_

Stiles dismounted and stuck the landing. None of his teammates clapped.

Allison’s archery event was the first one Stiles went to. Kira had waved him over, Peter handing Bobby a hot cup of coffee with a smile before he explained the order and how the archers would be placed. There were team and individual events, like all the other divisions, and Allison was the youngest on her team by five years. Stiles had sat with Kira, their shoulders pressed tight against each other as they held their breath between each draw and release, leaping up at the satisfying _twack_ in the target. They cheered loud and proud. Allison waved at them.

Stiles wished he was back outside in the stands. The only cheers that came were from the audience in the stands, not from any of his teammates or their parents. Bobby glanced around at the strange bubble of silence he had to sit in, he called it the Parent Pen, and whistled sharp once. He flashed Stiles a thumbs up.

He smiled, feeling light on his feet for a few blissful seconds before a meaty palm on his shoulder pushed him down.

“What did I tell you about smiling?”

Lahey squeezed his shoulder and steered him toward the bench. Stiles turned his back to the crowd, his knees knocking against Danny’s for a split-second. Danny jerked his leg away. _Whatever,_ Stiles thought, hating that it still hurt. He took a long swig of water, watching the judges whisper to each other before the scoreboard flickered and updated.

His stomach seized as he saw his name jump up, seven down from the top. He heard Jackson scoff and Danny exhale. Boyd was below him by two tenths of a point, and they had Isaac left on the vault. Boyd was silent, leaning forward as the announcer switched the audience’s focus over to the vault.

_“Finishing up on the vault is Isaac Lahey, son of Coach Lahey. His brothers have brought home gold, and this could be the first step in a long Olympics career for the youngest Lahey.”_

Isaac looked… well, he looked like he always did, like he was a few seconds from throwing up. Danny, Jackson, Boyd, and Stiles were silent on the bench. The scores would determine the individuals who’d make it the finals in their best performing sections. Stiles was highest in floor exercise, four down from the top. His other teammates weren’t so lucky, a few strained landings knocking them out by a few tenths of a point.

Every detail counted, and Isaac was the last up.

The crowd fell into an anticipatory hush, breathless, leaning forward with salivating impatience. Isaac swallowed with a wince, like he was chewing on thumbtacks. Stiles hugged his arms tight over his stomach as Isaac took off running, each _thud-thud-thud_ of his feet bringing him closer to the vault. The springboard _cra-cracked._ The light _piff_ of Isaac’s palms hitting the leather echoed in the stadium. Isaac soared, tucking in and twisting, pulling off a double before he extended his legs for the landing.

Isaac’s feet hit the floor, stumbled, and fell to the mats.

A thousand people breathed with Stiles, that disappointed and empathetic groan. Stiles stood, his muscles tense as he waited to see if Isaac got up on his own. Coach Lahey’s fists clenched and Boyd whispered, “shit.”

Shit because it was the worst fall Stiles had seen Isaac take, a bunny hop was a minor deduction, but Isaac _fell,_ full ass-to-mat contact. Stiles didn’t have to look up at the scoreboard to know that their team would fall down the rankings.

Isaac got up, his knees shaking, cheeks grey. Stiles stepped forward, ducking out of Coach Lahey’s way.

“Hey,” Stiles grabbed Isaac’s arm, steering him to the bench, “hey, it’s okay, bad luck happens sometimes—”

Isaac jerked his arm away.

“Stiles,” Isaac’s eyes welled with tears, his voice splintered, “fuck off.”

Coach Lahey pushed Stiles back.

“Work on your stretches, you need to be loose for the quarter-final.”

“What?” The rest of his team glared at him. _“What?”_

_“The scores have been tallied,”_ the announcer had a bounce in their voice, a jubilation that riled the crowd but made Stiles cold. _“We’ve got some substantial leads into the finals. The next gymnastics event is the individual floor exercise, we’ll see you in three and a half hours!”_

Three and a half hours could be endless, and at the same time it could pass in the blink of an eye.

Stiles could think of plenty of times when hours passed in the blink of an eye. Sleepovers with Scott lasted minutes, Melissa having to tear them away from video games or movies. Afternoons at Bobby’s gym were over so quick that Stiles would be shocked to hear his father’s tires pull into the parking lot.

The three and a half hours waiting for the floor routine final was… agonizing. Stiles felt every second scratch against his skin. The other teams were chatty, and Stiles didn’t have to know all the languages to understand that they were supporting the teammates that made it to the next round. He saw their glances over at Lahey, at how quiet the American corner of the locker room was.

Because it was a break and not a formal end to the day, Bobby had to stay in the stands, and Stiles had to stretch and rub down his legs alone. Isaac was nowhere to be seen, Boyd was reading a book, and Danny and Jackson watched something together on one of their phones. Stiles dug his thumbs into his legs and thought, _it isn’t fair._

Gymnastics had been Stiles’s sanctuary since he’d completed his first tumble. He was happy if he was in the air, he was safe if he was working on his twists, and he had a purpose when he stepped onto the mats. At least, he thought that had been gymnastics. All the medals and trophies that filled Bobby’s house when Stiles’s living room ran out of space… did all those make him happy?

With his fingers digging into his calf in Rio, he realized… no.

It was about the feeling. If Stiles had never placed once in a competition, he still would have been happy, he still would have gone over to Bobby’s gym every day after work, and he still would have worked out routines that would make Bobby shriek and swear.

Stiles wanted to feel light on his feet again.

He wanted to smile again.

“All right,” Coach Lahey wrung his hands after three and a half hours was up. “You’ve been practicing, make sure you keep your form tight, no daydreaming, and you might have a shot.”

Stiles lead the American team back out onto the floor, though a part of him wished his teammates had the balls to go back to their hotels. The crowd roared, flags from every nation waved, and Stiles couldn’t swallow down bile anymore. He let the poison he kept inside pull back his lips, exposing his teeth as he shot Lahey a glance.

“I don’t know, man. I’m just a one-trick pony.”

The front-runners went first.

Japan, China, Russia, and then…

Stiles stepped onto the mat.

Blood rushed in his ears, drowning out the noise until all he had was his heartbeat. The _thu-thud_ cadence was a subconscious comfort, a rhythm that had been with him his whole life, never wavering, never faltering. Stiles turned back toward the bench, but he didn’t look at his teammates or Coach Lahey. He found Bobby in an instant, his loud jacket easy to catch.

Other teams cheered on their teammates, and yet his was silent, no smiles, no waving. Stiles felt their stares, and he was tired of it.

_I just need to get through this,_ Stiles thought as he turned back toward the mat, straightening his stance. When the announcer called his name, he held up his hand in a stiff wave. The roar of the crowd drowned out his heartbeat, and Stiles had the absurd fear that he’d never hear it again, that their voices would chase away the only bit of music he had left.

_“As long as you got a workin’ noggin,”_ Bobby’s old advice came back to him, taking a fierce stranglehold of his throat, _“you can remember your favorite songs and keep the beat here.”_

Stiles brushed his hands over his temple before he put his two arms out, a signal that he was going to begin.

He was heavy on the mat ever since he trained under Coach Lahey. Gravity was no longer a friendly partner, but a bitter enemy who would take any opportunity to get the upper hand. Stiles strained against it, his hands shoving the ground away, as he arched his back into a spinning twist, dropping down once more into a flip. He landed, two feet slapping the mat.

Air shoved out between his teeth.

The next was a big leap, where Lahey had always made him stick with one conservative twist and a landing. Stiles got the extra height he needed, his arms folded over his chest as he twisted in the air, immediately leaping into a half front flip, melting into a twist before rolling into a landing. He caught the sweet spot, tucking his head under and rolling wit his momentum, springing up onto his feet.

Cheers and applause faded. Stiles could finally hear his heartbeat again.

He bounced on the balls of his feet. He smiled, shrugging off gravity’s pull. An electric tone was played, signaling the final ten seconds of his allotted time. His heart thudded in his chest, but for the life of him, Stiles couldn’t think of a song.

_Get through this,_ Stiles ran into a back handspring, a push and release, push into a soaring spin, keeping his knees equidistant. _Get through this and go home._ One rotation, two rotations, three—

The key to those kind of flips was balance, because he would land with bent knees and flat feet. It was always loud, a _bang_ that Bobby called a “fuck you finisher.” Stiles landed it, he heard the _bang,_ but his balance shifted at the last second. His ankle rolled, _snapped,_ and his vision went white. He took one long stumble, catching his weight on his right foot and heard the crowd’s unanimous, cringing disappointment.

_Get up,_ Coach Lahey’s voice screamed in his head, _get the fuck up._

Stiles straightened his right leg, putting all of his weight on it and clamping his lips shut when salt water flooded his mouth. He breathed heavily through his nose and stood up, the applause doing nothing to quell the fire that burned through his left ankle.

He tried putting weight on his left leg and _nope,_ no way was that happening. He choked back a scream, quickly putting all his weight on his right, almost losing his balance but he threw his arms out to catch himself. He hopped, lifting his head to try and catch any of his teammates’ eyes. He needed _help,_ but they just stood there, staring at him. Stiles couldn’t look at the audience, he couldn’t look at Bobby or else he’d lose it. He clenched his jaw.

“Come on, someone help me,” Stiles wiped at the stringy bits of saliva that crept out of his mouth. “Please.”

Boyd broke out into a run. Stiles never thought he’d ever get a hug from Boyd, and he wasn’t sure if taking weight off his left side counted as a hug. Fuck it, he’d take what he could get at this point. Stiles couldn’t look down, he didn’t want to see what had happened to his ankle. He kept his chin up and readjusted his arm’s placement around Boyd’s shoulders.

“I need to see the score,” Stiles forced out between labored breaths, “then I’ll go to a doctor and throw up, not necessarily in that order.”

Boyd huffed, rolling his eyes as he took Stiles’s weight, turning them around so they could see the scoreboard.

“Can’t be too bad if you’re still being a smartass.”

Stiles dug his fingers into Boyd’s shoulder.

“I can’t look, man. How bad is it?”

Boyd looked down while Stiles kept his eyes on the board, and Boyd’s tense silence did nothing for Stiles’s nerves.

So far the competition was very tight, with China in the lead at 15.93, Japan following at 15.91, and Russia in third at 15.646. Messing up the landing as awful as Stiles did, injury or no, was a substantial penalty. Stiles swallowed as the board updated.

Difficulty: 6.9

Execution: 9.043

Penalty: .3

Final score: 15.643

“All right,” Sitles wiped his face, his grin careening dangerously towards a grimace, “all right.”

Boyd helped him turn around, and Danny hurried to his other side, waving over the medic. The moment the camera’s unflinching gaze left him, Stiles’s breath was knocked out of his chest, all the adrenalin-fueled stoicness leaving him in one gush of breath. Tears pushed out of his eyes, streaking down his cheeks.

“Where’s dad? I w-want my dad.” Stiles’s voice sounded like someone else, because surely it was someone else who kept barking out _dad_ instead of _Bobby,_ no matter how much his brain screamed, _it’s Bobby, idiot._ Jackson was saying something to him and Stiles had no patience for it. “I said _I want my fucking dad.”_

Stiles was spilling out of his head, all hopes of coherence leaked out of his nose and eyes. He needed to pull it together, to stop being so loud. Jackson was a tool, but not a sharp one. He was going to sit there, rolling his eyes because he wouldn’t understand what Stiles was saying. And for once it Jackson would be in the right for not understanding what Stiles was trying to—

“Stiles.” The medic was still poking at his ankle, taking a closer look, and Stiles couldn’t watch or he would hurl. “Hey, punk, look at me.” Rough fingers tilted his chin up, where he’d been staring at the back of the medic’s head. Bobby’s face was a much better sight. “Deep breaths like we’ve practiced. In,” Bobby’s fingers were splayed on the center of Stiles’s chest. He waited until Stiles matched his inhale. “Out. That’s it. Breathe with me.”

God, Stiles hadn’t had a panic attack like this in years, the kind where his entire body was static. The world came back to him with each careful inhale. The medic had a wheelchair ready, Lahey was standing at the entrance of the archway, the roar of the crowd still seeping through the cinder blocks. His team hovered around the wheelchair, their faces awkward and twisted like they weren’t sure how bad they were allowed to feel.

Bobby was really there, his eyes wide and his other hand on Stiles’s back, like he wanted to feel Stiles’s lungs working on both sides. Bobby drummed his fingers on Stiles’s spine, aiming for careless, but it was ruined by how he trembled. He hummed, an unspoken, “You good?” Stiles cleared his throat, his limbs feeling more like his own.

“You look like shit, Bobby.”

“Wow, thanks.” Bobby’s grin was familiar and he helped Stiles into the wheelchair. “Let’s go.”

::::

The medical wing in the Olympics stadium was a separate city, a ton of open space, running doctors, and injured athletes contributing to the strange rhythm that ebbed and flowed like schools of fish. The medic wheeled Stiles through the madness. He was chubby but moved briskly, precisely cutting through traffic. Stiles gripped the wheelchair’s arms tightly, every turn felt like he was inches away from rolling over someone’s toes, but it never happened.

Stiles squealed to a halt in front of a long table, which he was lifted onto with the help of Bobby and the medic.

“Stiles, my name is Cole, I’ll be your doctor today.”

He ended it like he was asking a question, and shame prickled at the base of Stiles’s stomach when he realized it wasn’t the first time Cole introduced himself.

“Okay, yeah. Hi.”

His face was raw from crying, but he was more aware as the doctor gently prodded his ankle. The ice pack was a balm, one that hurt and healed in equal measure. He hissed, his muscles tightening at the sting. Bobby’s palm was an anchor on his shoulder as Cole said he had a grade three sprain. Bobby nodded, his brow followed and his frown deep as Cole went over recovery and care, all while keeping his hand on Stiles.

Stiles leaned his head against Bobby’s side and listened to him breathe.

“All right,” Cole brushed his hands off, his eyes landing on Isaac. “You’re next, hop up on the table for me.”

Coach Lahey, who’d been watching one of the monitors that was streaming the remaining floor routine, whipped around. Isaac’s mouth slack, jittering and wheezing like all the words had been knocked out of him. Isaac’s eyes shot to his father.

“Not necessary,” Coach Lahey was the most anxious Stiles had ever seen, trying to get around Cole. “He’s fine, he can walk it off.”

Air _whoosed_ out of Bobby’s nose, his frown deepening. The medic straightened, his pleasant, professional demeanor rippling away.

“He can’t _walk it off,_ it was a fall that could have damaged tissue and joints. Isaac,” Cole tapped the table. Isaac moved up onto the table, sitting next to Stiles. “I want to take a look at your back and knees, so if you could roll down your singlet to your waist, that would be perfect.”

“I’m telling you, he’s fine,” tiny flecks of frothing spit gathered at the corner of Lahey’s mouth as he grabbed Cole arm. “Stop babying him. Stilinski hurt himself, my son is _fine.”_

Stiles and the rest of his teammates flinched. Coach was hothead asshole, but he kept that part of himself hidden from the public. Grabbing doctors and making other gymnasts from other countries turn and stare was… something else. Stiles shifted on the table, twisting around so he could see the medic’s shocked face.

Cole recoiled.

“Excuse me, _sir—”_

He yanked back, grunting because Lahey was strong. His arm flew when he was able to get it free, and the back of his hand hit Isaac’s spine.

A pained, hitched whimper spilled out of Isaac’s mouth.

The entire chaotic yet efficient commotion around them grinded to a halt, more and more eyes not bothering to hide their shock. Lahey’s neck bulged, veins popping and his skin turning scarlet in ugly patches. The medic’s forced warmth vanished. His entire posture hardened as he turned, putting his body between Lahey and Isaac. He gently rolled Isaac’s singlet down.

Dark purple circles bloomed between knots of new and old scar tissue, a maccabe, violent nebula.

Lahey clenched his teeth, his breath coming quicker like a rabid bull.

Isaac shuddered, his blue eyes wide but unfocused, his breath pushing out like he’d been thrown out into the snow. His breaths came faster and faster, the silence crashing against the walls, and Stiles was sick and tired of doing nothing. He reached back until his fingers hit Isaac’s shoulder.

Everyone was deathly still, hushed except for Lahey who kept huffing in air, a squeaky wheeze punctuating every exhale. He didn’t say it was okay because it _wasn’t._ He braced himself for a hissed, “fuck off, Stiles.”

A few tears slipped down Isaac’s nose. After two shuddering breaths, long fingers reached up, closed over Stiles’s hand, and squeezed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And WOW. 
> 
> Here we are, I’m sorry it took so long, I'm getting back into the groove of things, therapy is going well and things have been calming down with the family drama front so… I’m hoping this means I can focus on this. I also hope to turn it into an actual book, because I really do love this story you guys. 
> 
> I hope you liked this chapter, and I hope you trust me to take care of these characters, I’m certainly not leaving them here, I promise. This is a journey, and Stiles is a teenager, he’s got more years in him left. I was worried that this chapter would be unbalanced, because even when times get tough for our heroes, I want there to be a balance, a sense of hope even if it’s just a glimmer. I always want there to be hope to hold out for. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you had fun, that this is still enjoyable even if it gets hard sometimes. I agonized over the edit of this, I am probably still picking at it now, btu I wanted to get it to you at a reasonable time. 
> 
> Let me know what you think!
> 
> I’ll still be active on tumblr for the time being, but there are other ways to find me. [**Here**](http://mia6363.tumblr.com/about) you can see a little breakdown of other places to find me and the other things I do in relation to these fics (journals/behind the scenes, playlists, head canons). [**So click on over** ](http://mia6363.tumblr.com/about)to get the full rundown!
> 
> The art is by [**the fantastic Liz**](https://eklixio.tumblr.com/), check out her page and her instagram, she’s amazing, and the year headers were made by me :) 


	5. We Are What We Leave Behind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They were going to have to face what happened, but Finstock thought they’d have time, a few days, a few _weeks_ at least. _Give the kid a fucking break,_ Finstock thought as he sped down the fast lane.

There was no magic trick to avoid jet lag.

When the gym members found out Finstock was going to Brazil for two weeks, arguments erupted over whose advice was the most sound. Half the gym insisted the key was to stay awake for the whole flight, while the other half swore he needed to sleep as much as possible. The truth of the matter was he was fucked either way. There was no escaping time.

All the adrenalin, deep breathing, and yoga in the world would crumble to jet lag.

When the plane touched down in LAX, Finstock went to shake Stiles awake only to see that the kid’s eyes were open, unfocused and distant.

“Hey.” Finstock flicked Stiles’s ear. “We’re home.” Stiles didn’t move as the rest of the passengers pulled down carry-ons from the overhead bins. Finstock held Stiles’s crutches between his legs. “Stiles.”

Stiles sucked in a quick breath and stood up too fast, pitching to the side. He hit Finstock with all his weight.

“Shit.” The faux-leather seat creaked under Finstock’s palm as he leaned forward so he didn’t topple backwards. Stiles’s face was buried somewhere between Finstock’s shoulder and chest. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Finstock twisted around, hauling their duffles into one hand, handing Stiles’s crutches over with the other. “Let’s go, I feel like I’m going to piss for a year.”

Stiles laughed, a strangled giggle that wasn’t as loud as Finstock would have wanted, but he’d take it for now. He let Stiles go first, because Finstock knew trying to balance their heavy bags on his shoulders was going to be a struggle.

He followed the cli-click of crutches.

The moment he stepped out of the dry airplane air, Finstock stumbled, his knees going weak and his equilibrium so out of whack he had the insane worry that LAX had added a vodka mist over the past two weeks. He felt stuffy, dizzy, and hungry for something greasy and disgusting, not to taste, but to prove that he still had a working tongue. He knew that the Olympics were going to be stressful, he knew that wrestling with sobriety _and_ Stiles performing on the biggest worldwide stage would eat holes in his stomach lining… but he never thought he’d also become a witness in a child and athlete abuse scandal.

_Fuck._

That word had been ringing between his ears for days. Whenever he felt things slow down, whenever he had a moment to catch his breath, _fuck_ would come barrelling back into his thoughts and he’d be knocked out again. _Fuck_ beacuse every time he closed his eyes he’d see purple-green bruises across a scar-speckled back. _Fuck_ because there were several nights where he’d jerked awake from an awful nightmare that all that pain had been inflicted on Stiles’s body.

He’d been scared, which was fucked up because it’s not like _he_ was hurt, it’s not like Lahey had gotten violent. If anything, the blowhard was quiet. He hadn’t said a word when the medic summoned security to take him into custody. Seeing the metal cuffs on his wrists should have been a relief, a terrible chapter coming to an end, but Finstock kept thinking of lawyers, court dates, _testimonies,_ and all he wanted to do was grab Stiles and run.

The more he kept thinking about it, the tighter his throat became. Finstock heard folks talk about their children before, the unconditional love they had for them. He’d always waved it aside. _Unconditional love_ always felt like a punchline no one but him would laugh at. He’d never felt that and his father certainly hadn’t felt it for him. When books and movies described a parental bond as a messy sea of _love-worry-protection,_ he’d always thought it must be nice.

Staring at those bruises, his body sliding between Stiles and Lahey… Finstock was hit with it, like a shotgun blast to the chest. _Love-worry-protection,_ so savage and primal it frightened him.

Before, he’d take a swig of whiskey-coffee because it would loosen the knots in his chest. If he felt too much it was easy to take the edge off.

Sobriety made him shake and sweat, but as each _cli-click_ of those crutches wound tighter around his ribs, he realized that he’d never been more vulnerable.

_How do parents fucking stand it,_ he thought. He juggled their bags to catch Stiles’s hand as they went down the escalator.

Strong, calloused fingers squeezed Finstock’s palm before letting go.

“Thanks.” Stiles leaned against Finstock so he could fiddle with his crutches. “Still getting used to these things.” Stiles paused, his brows coming together that made little wrinkles writhe on his forehead. “Have you ever had crutches?”

“Hm.” Finstock thought about it, scanning the baggage claim screens, looking for their flight. “Once. In Berlin, after our last show, the troupe was fucking around on a jungle gym and I pulled my groin. I was hobblin’ around for three weeks.”

Finstock waited, holding his breath as Stiles’s shoulders jumped. His nose scrunched moments before giggles spewed out of his mouth in ugly, uneven gasps. Unexpected laughter was never aesthetically beautiful. It was a splotchy shock to the body, a twitching rush of humor and air. Stiles shuddered, his face splitting into a crooked grin.

“Oh my God,” he smiled the way he used to, and Finstock rushed to think of all the humiliating things he’d lived through if it meant Stiles would laugh. “I’m sorry, I’m sure that hurt but,” he tapered off into loud snorts.

Finstock rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, _groin,_ ” Stiles slipped, catching himself on Finstock’s arm. Finstock caught him, keeping pace until Stiles got his crutches under him. “I get it. Remind me to tell you how I almost lost a testicle to exposure.”

Stiles wheezed, and Finstock thought he’d pulled it off, that maybe his sluggish, booze-starved brain had done something _useful_ for the kid after the mess in Rio.

Giggles were silenced. Finstock looked up to see the rest of the American Men’s gymnastics team waiting at baggage claim.

None of them had been looking at each other, but all their heads turned to strike the laughter out of Stiles’s mouth. They looked at him for a split second before they all hurried to look anywhere else. Danny went back to texting, Jackson lugged two Gucci suitcases off the carousel, and Boyd dug through his carry-on. Isaac stared at the rotating river of luggage.

“I got your stuff off already,” Jackson waved towards Stiles’s two suitcases, one capsized and the other wobbling with a broken wheel. “Couldn’t find any of your bags,” his eyes met Finstock’s for a split second before he pulled out his phone, “if you had any.”

“Nope,” Finstock jostled the many bags on his shoulders, “all carry-ons.”

Jackson turned away, already not listening.

_Is that it?_ Finstock couldn’t help but think with a grimace. The rest of the group waited for them to take their bags and go. If Finstock had all the time in the world he couldn’t find words that would make any of it okay, and he didn’t have years. He had minutes.

“Hey, man.” Stiles cleared his throat. His voice cracked and ruined any hope of sounding casual. “You gonna be okay?”

He nudged Isaac with his crutch. The kid jumped, wheeling his arms before slamming them down at his sides. He looked at Stiles with wide eyes.

“What?”

Stiles shrunk back, his lips drawing into a tight line like he could taste how _bullshit_ such a benign question was. There was no _okay,_ there might never be an _okay,_ and Isaac wasn’t going to be _okay_ at baggage claim trying to figure out if he wanted to leave his father’s bags or not.

The crutches squeaked on the tile as Stiles took a half step back.

“I mean,” Stiles’s voice made it through the roar of a million conversations going on around them, “do you have a place to go?”

Isaac’s mouth slammed shut with a painful click. For a moment he looked younger, the kind of young where big questions were terrifying. Finstock couldn’t tell if the kid was breathing, and the longer the seconds dragged on, the more _sick_ Finstock felt. His skin itched, an awful rash of anger and worry—

“Isaac, you can stay with me,” Danny glanced up from his phone. “My parents gave me the OK.”

Stiles and Finstock exhaled a tidal wave of relief. Stiles rolled his shoulders, pulling his suitcases closer to him until Finstock could get a grip.

“All right.” Stiles gave an awkward salute, his eyes sweeping over his teammates. “I’ll see you at the trial.”

Stiles took off toward the doors, his crutches hitting the floor in fast taps. The moment Stiles turned his back, all eyes swiveled to Finstock. His throat closed up, a choked, “see you around,” punching out of his mouth before he turned and jogged after Stiles. He told himself he wasn’t running. He followed Stiles out of the sliding automatic doors while clutching as many bags as he could.

The crutches came to a stop a few feet out of baggage claim.

Finstock had to twist his body to the side so he didn’t bowl the kid over, and he dropped a couple bags. A few people huffed behind him, having to move to redirect traffic. Finstock ducked down to stop one of his duffles from rolling away. His knees touched the sidewalk, his back cracking a few times as he yanked it back. He pulled too hard, but before he could fall back onto his ass, his back hit a strong leg.

“I got you.” Fingers wound in Finstock’s shirt, so thin that he was worried it was going to rip, and pulled. “Come on, _up,_ before you pull your groin again.”

“Smart ass.” Finstock brushed off his knees. Both of their voices were shot. “Ready?”

How one word, one simple question, could waver so much, Finstock would understand. Stiles was there to push him forward.

::::

Finstock started to feel more human after half a cheeseburger and two cups of coffee.

They pulled into the first rest stop on the highway. When it came to the choice between Wendys and KFC, Stiles picked Wendys. They sat at a table in the corner, Stiles dragging over an extra chair so he could prop up his leg. Color was back in Stiles’s cheeks, and his eyes weren’t distant anymore. The more he ate, the better he looked.

Finstock pushed the rest of his fries over to him. When his arm stretched out he felt his jacket shift, the weight of his phone heavy in his pocket.

“Shit.” Stiles looked up, cheeks full of grease and meat. Finstock grabbed his phone. “I forgot to turn this shit on, did you—”

Stiles lunged for his bag and Finstock took that as a _no._ He turned on his phone and his hand went numb from all the buzzing, a whole day and a half worth of updates, emails, texts, and _shit_ were those _voicemails?_ Finstock went through the texts and emails. Updates from Greenberg, a blurry picture of Stiles taken from a TV screen from Jordan, and two weeks worth of promotional and spam email.

He wasn’t going to look at his voicemails, not until the food settled in his stomach.

Stiles scrolled through messages, his eyebrows rising higher and higher on his face.

“What?” Finstock swallowed the last lump of burger and wilted lettuce. The ringing in his ears had stopped once they were out of the airport and on the road, but he felt it looming over his shoulder. “What is it?”

“Uh.” Stiles blinked. “Nothing, I mean. Allison and Kira, they’ve been… messaging me.”

“Yeah?” Finstock fought the urge to lean forward, his molars grinding into dust. “Everything okay?”

He swore he kept his voice impartial, but Stiles’s eyes shot up and he waved his hand.

“Oh no— everything is good.” Stiles’s shoulders shuddered for a few seconds before he took a deep breath, burying the exhale in his soda. “I thought they’d forget about me. Especially after… you know.” Finstock nodded, his stomach knotted into a tight fist. “B-Because, I mean… I’d get it but instead they’re, um…”

The words choked off, and Stiles shoved his phone into Finstock’s numb palm.

He read Kira’s text message first.

_About to step in for my final team match. I’ll be busy for three days, then I’m back in the US. Miss you already, I hope you’re doing OK._

Allison’s were a string of emojis, promising to text as soon as she touched down stateside. Finstock’s fingers ached when he gave Stiles his phone back.

“They’re sweet. It’s good to have friends like that.” The moment Stiles’s phone left his hand, something struck him. “Have you heard from your parents?”

Stiles’s fingers flew over his screen, sending a quick series of messages.

“Not yet.” They ate their meal in tense silence, both of them staring at Stiles’s phone with every swallow. Sure enough, a _ping_ cut through Finstock finishing the last of his fries. Stiles grabbed his phone and Finstock was on his feet before Stiles could finish sucking in a half-panicked breath. “Mom’s in the hospital,” Stiles managed.

Finstock shoved what remained of Stiles’s meal in a bag. They were out on the road, driving into the sunset. Finstock fumbled for the crappy shades he kept in the middle console. He shoved the cheap plastic onto his face and got onto the highway.

They were going to have to face what happened, but Finstock thought they’d have time, a few days, a few _weeks_ at least. _Give the kid a fucking break,_ Finstock thought as he sped down the fast lane.

Stiles was going to be a witness in an abuse scandal. Finstock would go back to the gym. They’d both have to go back to living their lives like the past two weeks were incidental, and not life changing. They hadn’t gotten days, they’d gotten _minutes_ in a Wendys outside of the airport before they were speeding back home.

Stiles was out of the truck the moment Finstock put it in park. One of his crutches clattered to the sidewalk and Stiles didn’t stop to get it, resorting to using one, a click-hop-hop that propelled him through the hospital doors. Finstock grabbed the crutch off the ground, running after the kid as Stiles barked out, “he’s my fucking legal guardian,” when the nurses tried to stop him with a “family only,” warning.

Finstock was dizzy, out of breath, and sweaty. Usually he’d be caught up in his own discomfort, in ways to ease it, get out of it… but he only thought about Stiles. Bone deep concern dug into his chest, talons securing around his heart and digging in with every thu-thump in his ribcage. They turned the corner. The Sheriff caught Stiles by the shoulder.

“Stiles,” Finstock had to catch himself on the wall to keep from barreling forward, the other crutch swinging in his grasp. Stiles leaned forward, blind to anything that wasn’t his mother. “ _Stiles._ Look at me,” the Sheriff shook his son hard.

Finstock moved without thinking, knocking the Sheriff’s hand back and slipping his arm under Stiles’s, handing him the other crutch.

“Take it easy, Noah.”

Noah ignored him as Finstock fixed the crutch under Stiles’s arm, brushing the tops of his shoulders because… he had to _touch him,_ an unspoken _I am here with you._ Stiles recentered himself, his knuckles white. His father relinquished his firm grip.

“Stiles, you need to be calm.”

“I am calm.” Stiles’s lip wavered, his voice cracked, but he jutted his chin out. His gaze was sharp, as sharp as Finstock had seen it since he stepped off the plane. “I _am.”_

Noah’s jaw was clenched, the tendons in his neck tight. Bubbling, indignant rage burned in Finstock’s throat like bile as he pushed the Sheriff back with an open palm.

“Let him through or _I_ won’t be fucking calm.”

Whether Finstock’s words got through or Noah was startled by being shoved back, it didn’t matter because Stiles was through the door with a warbling “Hey, mom.”

For the longest time, Finstock lived for himself. He drank because he liked it, he danced because it was unlike any kind of fun he’d ever experienced. Bouts of irrationality and nostalgia could always be blamed on the alcohol.

He was stone cold sober when Noah _looked_ at him for what felt like the first time. This wasn’t the stare of someone who was doing the bare minimum to end interaction. His lips were thin and stiff in a way that Finstock had seen in Stiles when the kid was upset.

“You have _no idea_ what I’ve been through these few days.”

“Sure don’t.” Finstock crossed his arms to stop himself from grabbing Noah and _shaking_ him to his senses. “Do you know what _our two fucking weeks_ have been like?”

Finstock was one breath away from losing it, his throat seizing and his tongue numb because they deserved a _God damn break_ but weren’t getting it, and it wasn’t fair. Finstock’s fingers shook when he smoothed down his shirt. He winced at the sweat stains. Noah kept his mouth shut, out of empathy or intelligence, Finstock didn’t care.

“I’m gonna,” Finstock sucked in air, his whole body quaking, “I’m gonna go,” _throw up,_ “sit down. For a second.”

He’d been in Beacon Hills Memorial long enough to know that they had a few chairs in the hallway, for people getting bad news, nurses who needed a breather, and for sweaty middle-aged men experiencing their first panic attack. He fell into a chair, squeezed his eyes shut, and pressed his palms over his eyelids.

_This is why people drink,_ Finstock thought with a nauseous grin, salt water flooding his mouth. His hands shook from stress, from withdrawals. He thought of the times he helped Stiles breathe through tornadoes of anxiety. This was a part of being a better person. In and out. Inhale and exhale, one step at a time, until he could open his eyes.

Noah was still there, looking uncomfortable. Finstock’s cheeks were hot. He grimaced through the embarrassment.

“I’m sorry.” Finstock’s eyebrows shot up. Noah’s eyes slid off him. “I guess I don’t know what the past few weeks have been like,” Noah admitted.

_Maybe try telling your son that, ask him a question every once and a while,_ Finstock swallowed down. He wasn’t going to push his luck.

“We’re even.” Finstock rubbed his nose with the back of his wrist. “Can I go in?”

He waited for Noah’s nod before he pushed open the door. Stiles was talking a mile a minute, his brittle stiff but bright. White sheets drained the color from Claudia’s cheeks. Her eyes were focused on her son holding out his phone, scrolling through pictures.

“— to Allison’s event, she’s an archer, and she is _so cool,_ Mom. Her _and_ Kira,” his eyes met Finstock’s, “right Bobby?”

Finstock pulled up a chair.

“They’re a sweet pair.” He managed a real smile through the sticky sweat that slid down his back. “Here, I got some cute shots.”

“Aw geez,” Stiles rolled his eyes. “Here we go.”

Stiles always complained when he had to sit through his mother and Finstock going through pictures. He leaned his cheek against Finstock’s shoulder. Claudia ‘oohed’ at them, pointing to ones with a, “send that to me right now,” that never failed to make Finstock crack a smile. Stiles swore loud enough for Noah to grunt with disapproval.

“All right,” Finstock hit SEND, “let’s move on to the next batch.”

::::

The fourth time Stiles stayed the night, Finstock knew that “going back to normal” wasn’t going to happen.

They’d spend their days apart, Stiles in the hospital with Claudia, and Finstock back at the gym. Finstock never thought he’d be glad to see Greenberg again, but Finstock hugged him the moment he stepped through the door. After one day of the regulars crowding around him as he showed them the pictures and video he took, the gym fell back into its routine. Wiping down machines, managing books, and washing towels all gave Finstock a false hope of _maybe things will go back to normal._

The Sheriff’s cruiser would crunch along the gravel at six-thirty. They’d warm up for fifteen minutes with loud music and dancing, Stiles flailing his arms, before Finstock would move him to weights to burn off all the energy and anxiety that the hospital piled on him. Finstock copied down exercises for Stiles’s ankle, and they’d run through that for an hour, or until Stiles would start wincing too much and Finstock would call it a night.

The first night they caught their breath in the parking lot, waiting for the Sheriff to show up. After a half hour, Stiles sighed with a soft, “can I stay with you?”

Normal… normal had changed.

Finstock had gotten used to the silence in his house when Stiles was down in Los Angeles. He’d learned to always keep the television on and a drink in his hand. He told himself that he was fine with no noise.

Hearing his shitty floorboards creak under Stiles’s feet had Finstock smiling, even if the addition of crutches was new.

“I call dibs on the shower,” Stiles called over his shoulder, already hurrying down the narrow hallway.

Finstock flipped him off.

“You know, guests are supposed to respect the host.”

“Guests get first dibs, first rules of being a host,” Stiles shot back with a grin. He leaned on his left crutch. “Pizza again tonight?”

“Yeah,” Finstock drawled out, realizing that he couldn’t feed Stiles pizza _every fucking night._ “Sure. The usual?”

Stiles flashed a thumbs up before he hobbled into the bathroom. Finstock sighed, called up the regular pizza place, and then sat down with a huff. Stiles needed _real food,_ not whatever he got at the hospital and take-out. Finstock scrolled through his messages, and forced his dumb hands to stop shaking as he typed out one of the most embarrassing texts of his life.

That was how he found himself on the phone in the grocery store the next day, clutching his phone as a former Olympian laughed on the other line.

_“You’re treating this like you’re at war. It’s just shopping.”_

“Shut up.” Finstock felt an awful blush crawl down his neck when Chris laughed. “You’re a _dad,_ this shit is your wheelhouse. I’m just a,” Finstock fumbled for a descriptor that wasn’t laced with profanity, “uh, I don’t know. A bag of garbage trying his best.” An old grandmother gave him the stink-eye from a nearby aisle. Finstock fled to frozen foods. “Please, please, _please_ help me. I don’t know what the _fuck_ I’m doing here.”

_“All right, all right. Deep breaths,”_ Finstock rolled his eyes. _“There are a lot of easy staples, I promise cooking isn’t as scary as you think it is.”_

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll send you pictures of the burned first attempts, then we’ll see who’s laughing.”

Of all the things to have come out of the Olympics, Finstock didn’t expect to get a new friend. He was over fifty years old, did people make new friends at that age? Stiles was young, he still had a bright smile and _hope,_ so the fact that Kira and Allison were texting him wasn’t surprising. Two voicemails from Chris coupled with the effort of _keeping in touch_ was not expected.

They went aisle by aisle, Chris going down his list of ingredients as Finstock became familiar with parts of the store he’d never visited. Garlic, Onions, pasta, canned tomatoes, and so many spices Finstock thought he was going to go cross-eyed if he had to squint at another label.

_“I bet you twenty dollars that you make a presentable meal on your first try.”_

Finstock grunted as he loaded up the bags on the floor of his truck.

“You’re on.” Finstock closed the passenger door, and it struck him that he’d been so busy shooting the shit with Chris Argent that he’d forgotten about sticking out like a sore thumb at the store. “Hey,” Finstock cleared his throat, “thanks for doing this. You didn’t have to, and I want you to know,” he ducked his head even though no one was watching, “I appreciate it.”

Ideas like _polite, courteous, and pleasantry_ left a sour taste in his mouth. It all sounded like bullshit to Finstock. Fluffing someone up with a _please_ and _thank you_ didn’t scrub the shit off an asshole. Finstock never saw the point of saying things he didn’t mean. When he used words, he wanted them to _count._ Swearing was easier than flattery.

His throat shuddered around gratitude.

_“It’s not a problem,”_ Chris said, so breezily Finstock wanted to strangle him. _“It’s what friends are for.”_

Finstock’s hand slipped when he tried to open the driver’s door. He ended up slamming his shoulder against the truck, catching himself before he could do anything humiliating like fall or drop his phone.

“Right.” Finstock got in the car as fast he could to avoid any other fuck ups. “How’s Allison?”

_“Good. Still getting over the last legs of jet lag. No magic cure for it, though.”_ The drive home was short, Beacon Hills far removed from any major roads that traffic was non-existent. _“She’ll be starting school in a couple weeks, she wants to have a full senior year before getting back on the training circuit.”_ Chris paused, and Finstock had been so preoccupied making room in his cupboards that he jumped when he continued. _“How’s Stiles doing?”_

Shit. That was the question, wasn’t it?

“Honestly?” Finstock rubbed his palm over his mouth, his saliva sticking to his gums as anxiety flooded his stomach. “I have no fucking idea.” Finstock forced out a humorless laugh. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m making sure he’s doing his PT for his ankle, but… he hasn’t said anything about the rest of it. And the more time I sit around _not_ asking, the _worse_ it gets, I know that… but what do I fucking say? I keep waiting like any second now it will come to me, but that’s bullshit.” His knees shook so hard that he had to sit down. “I hate waiting, but I’m scared to say the wrong thing. Which, I mean, how fucking insane is that? I’m afraid but what right do I have? Compared to the shit that kid endured for over a year?”

A long stretch of silence bloomed over the line, and Finstock remembered why he didn’t have many friends.

He didn’t bother with the usual patterns of relationships. If movies and books were to be believed, everything had to be paced out. There was a handshake, smiles, and over the years more and more of the ugly side would be revealed, the _real face_ of the other person, and when all the niceties were gone was when _real_ friendship could begin.

Finstock didn’t do nicetities.

He was ugly all over. One look at him was enough of a warning for most folks. _Take it or leave it_ might as be tattooed on his forehead. He massaged his chest, his heart already slowing down to a normal pace. On the bright side, he got this over with right away. Kids were more malleable, forgiving, and weren’t as stiff as adults. Allison and Stiles would be fine, but it’s not like Finstock _needed_ new friends. He was fine before, he’d be fine again—

_“It’s normal to be afraid.”_ Finstock snorted. _“It is. I am all the time.”_

“Bull-fucking-shit, Chris. What do you have to be afraid of?”

_“Being a father to a teenage girl is terrifying.”_

“Fine. Point made.” Finstock rolled out his shoulders, kicking his sink cabinets that always creaked open the moment he closed them. “At least you’re her dad. You’ve got that familial connection,” he waved his hand, “genes and shit.”

Chris hummed, something rustling in the background. Finstock tried to picture what the Argent house looked like, but everything he thought of was like the centerfold of a Martha Stewart catalog.

_“That only gets a person so far. Effort matters.”_ Finstock curled in on himself, like he could avoid sincerity if he hunched enough. _“He’s scared, you’re scared. Dealing with it together is way better than putting it off.”_

“Yeah.” Finstock stood, his back cracking in four places. “You’re right. All right, I’m going to get started on this and I expect my twenty dollars in the mail.”

Chris laughed, a surprised catch in his throat that made Finstock grin as he hung up.

He took deep breaths until his hands stopped shaking. _Suck it up,_ Finstock thought as he reached for garlic. Fear wasn’t an excuse to keep stalling, to keep coasting on the flimsy facade of _normalcy._ He crushed the cloves, peeling off the skin. Closing himself off wasn’t the answer. Pretending shit hadn’t changed in Brazil wouldn’t help.

A cheery _ping_ came from his phone. A long recipe from Chris, followed with a simple message:

_I’ll take that 20 next time I see you._

::::

When Stiles was little, he thought big kids had it all figured out. They were tall, they could ride bicycles, and some _drove_ to school. When Stiles was in kindergarten he knew he’d have it all figured out when he was a big kid. All the little worries wouldn’t matter, he’d never feel small again, how could he at the height he’d achieve? He’d stay up as late as he wanted and eat cereal for dinner.

When he turned sixteen, he realized that he’d reached big kid age and he still felt helpless. Coach Lahey would scream at him, repeating drill after drill even if everything hurt. Big kids didn’t feel _helpless,_ but Stiles did. He thought maybe winning a medal would make him an adult. He had mountains of medals and trophies at Bobby’s house, but maybe he needed a big one to make it count.

Then he’d finally be a big kid. He would be tall, he wouldn’t worry anymore, and his dad would be proud of him.

Stiles was days away from his seventeenth birthday, and he never felt smaller.

“Honey,” his mom squeezed his arm, and Stiles realized he’d been staring off into space with tears in his eyes. _Again._

He shook himself, wiping his eyes on his sleeve.

“Sorry, mom.” He smiled, and wondered when it became a reflex to wear a smile like armor. “What’s up?”

His new schedule was to get up at seven, brush his teeth, and his dad would pick him up by nine to drive him to the hospital. He’d spend the day with his mom, his dad would get off work around five, and then be back at the gym by six-thirty. Rinse, wash, repeat.

It was still morning when his mom ran her fingers over his cheek.

“No need to apologize, Stiles. You never have to do that with me.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, resting his elbows on the hospital bed.

“Sure, but I’m,” he wiggled his fingers by his temple, “spacing out. I’m not stressed out about _now,_ you know? There’s no need to worry.”

He smiled as bright and wide as his face would allow. His mom pinched him. He hissed a confused, _“Ow,”_ as his mom shook her head.

“I know your father has been… under the assumption that if I don’t see _you_ being unhappy, then I will always be stress free.” His mom laughed, the same way she used to out in the garden. Uneven, hoarse, and hard enough to make the lines in her face deepen. “I’m going to borrow some of Bobby’s vocabulary for this. Your father means well, but it’s bullshit.” A startled laugh wriggled out of Stiles’s tight throat. His mom’s smile widened. “I’m always going to feel for you. Worry about you. I want to do all of that, that’s what being a mom is about.” She squeezed his hand. “Don’t hide from me anymore, okay?”

Stiles nodded. A few tears slipped down his cheeks. She leaned forward and hugged him tight.

“Okay.”

Stiles knew he hadn’t been gone that long. He had over a year of voicemails, pictures, and videos of his mom, but it wasn’t the same as _seeing_ her. She had bits of grey in her hair, and when she spoke there was a whispering rasp that Stiles had never heard before.

She stared at him, her eyes moving to different parts of his face. Stiles wondered how much he had changed, what things did she notice that weren’t there before.

“What’s on your mind?”

Stiles worried a loose thread on his jacket, one of Bobby’s old ones with big bright patches. His first instinct was to deflect the question, to smile again and insist that nothing was wrong. Stiles’s lip quivered.

“I don’t know if I want to do gymnastics anymore.” His mom hummed, a nod that felt too casual, so Stiles forced out a breath to make her understand. “I mean, I don’t know. For sure. But… it’s the only thing I’m good at. And why would someone stop doing what they’re good at?”

His mom scoffed.

“It’s not the only thing you’re good at.” Stiles gave her a look. “It’s not. Did someone tell you that?”

Stiles shrugged, instinct screaming to deny it, but his brain knew better.

“Yeah. Coach.” His mom reeled back, and Stiles held up his hands. “Lahey, the asshole, not Bobby. Bobby would never say that.” Stiles rubbed his hand over his mouth. “I loved it, mom, I really did, but the last year was fucking awful. And, I’m afraid if I try it again, that it won’t feel the same as it did before. Maybe I’ve lost that feeling forever.” Stiles squeezed his eyes shut. “But if I _don’t,_ then… what’s the point? Who would care about any of this,” he motioned to himself, “if I’m not in the air?”

Stiles was divided, cracked down the middle. Half of him was rebellious, spitting on the memory of Coach Lahey with a vicious “Fuck him and everything he stood for.” He was abusing his son, and the team to a lesser extent. He was going on trial for it. Half of Stiles celebrated, a fuck-you-farewell as Bobby would put it.

The other half had gotten used to all the vile thoughts that came out of Lahey’s mouth and seeped into Stiles’s brain like oil in dirt. What if he was right? What if Stiles was a one-trick pony, and he couldn’t even pull that off?

What if all Stiles would ever be good for, would ever be _worthy of,_ had never been attainable in the first place? What if that was it, and Stiles was going to live the rest of his life alone because who wants to be friends with a lame horse?

He wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

“Stiles,” his mom sat up. Stiles scrambled to get pillows propped up behind her. “No person can be summarized in bullet points, not if you know them. We are what we love, we are what we hate, and all the shades between that are too varied for words.” His mom squeezed his hands, hard enough to ground him in the present. “People are like paintings, Stiles. Sure, there are a few elements that are obvious to point out, dominant colors and themes, but at the end of the day… there will never be enough words to describe you.”

When she hugged him Stiles felt like he could breathe again.

Stiles was lighter than he had felt in days, even when his dad drove in silence to the gym. Stiles whistled as he got out of the car, hobbling down Bobby’s dirt driveway. It was Tuesday, which was Bobby’s day off. That meant any physical therapy would happen in Bobby’s living room. Stiles banged on the screen door, giggling at the flurry of curse words that came from the other side.

“Let me in, Bobby!”

“Let yourself in, punk!”

Stiles had the door open halfway through the command. The last few days were a haze, he still felt tired from jet lag, and Bobby’s house had always been a constant. Stiles never had to be careful at Bobby’s.

The door swung open, and Stiles stumbled at the bizarre sight of Bobby _cooking._ Stiles had never seen him use the stove. The sink was always full of coffee cups. They never used dishes, delivery always provided enough utensils to eat it out of the box.

Something smelled so _delicious_ that Stiles thought he’d fallen asleep at the hospital and would wake up any moment.

“Close the door, I don’t want any bugs comin’ in,” Bobby grumbled.

Stiles closed the door, kicked off his shoes, and leaned his crutches against the table.

“What are you doing?”

Stiles peered over Bobby’s side, staring at roasting tomatoes and garlic sizzling in the pan, pasta boiling in a bot on the next burner. Bobby wiped sweat from his brow, giving Stiles a one-armed hug.

“Making dinner, or, shit, trying too. Can you grab the pasta strainer?” He pointed to a now clean space under the cabinets. A strainer, that still had the barcode sticker on it, was there. Stiles grabbed it and shoved it in the sink as Bobby poured out the large pot. Steam fogged up the window as Bobby’s hissed, “shit, shit, shit,” eased the noodles into the strainer. Bobby blew out a long breath, his eyes sneaking a glance at Stiles. “You look good today.”

“Had a good talk with mom. Since when can you cook?”

“Since right fucking now.” Bobby rolled his eyes. “Bring a plate over.” Stiles opened his mouth because he didn’t know if Bobby _had_ plates, when Bobby pointed to the cabinet with the crooked door. “In there.”

When Stiles was in elementary school, his mom would make dinner. Her health declined, and dinners were made by his dad when he was feeling ambitious. Pasta out of the box with sauce out of a jar, no vegetables and no spices. Stiles and his mom would always insist it tasted good, even when it didn’t.

“This _should_ be edible. If it’s not, Chris owes me twenty dollars.” Bobby handed Stiles a fork. “Ready?”

At home, Stiles waited until his mother and father took the first bite before he did, because his dad said it was polite. At Scott’s, him and Scott eat the moment their plates hit the table. Bobby and Stiles had the tradition of doing cheers, with chopsticks, a pizza slice, or forks. The _ting_ vibrated Stiles’s fingers moments before they dug in.

Garlic, onion, tomato, and butter bloomed across Stiles’s tongue. He kicked Bobby’s shin, trying to speak around mouthfuls of food. Bobby kicked him back, and they devolved into a foot battle, both of them twirling their forks in the pasta.

“Son of a bitch,” Bobby shook his head. “Not fucking bad for a first try.”

Stiles breathed deep.

“This tastes like my mom’s cooking.”

Bobby raised his eyebrows.

“No shit?”

Things were going to get harder. Stiles wasn’t stupid, he knew this was the beginning. His senior year was going to start in a few weeks. He hadn’t had time to think about college. His mom was still in the hospital, his dad was talking less and less. The trial against Mr. Lahey would come, and Stiles would have to serve as a witness with the rest of his former teammates.

Stiles lifted his water bottle.

“No shit.”

::::

His mom was ready to be discharged on Stiles’s third day home.

“This should be everything.”

Stiles carried the last of the bags out to his dad’s truck. His mom got out of the wheelchair, and spoke with the doctor instead of coming to the car. Stiles closed the back door. His dad leaned against the driver’s side, arms crossed. Stiles wiped sweat from his forehead, looking forward to the air conditioned car, when he saw that his mom was being handled multiple clipboards.

Stiles opened his mouth to ask why there was more than one discharge form, but one look at his dad’s dour expression snapped his jaw shut.

His mom smiled at him when she walked over. Stiles got into the car, and the sound of the doors closing, one after the other, was familiar. The silence that followed was not.

Leather creaked under his father’s hands, the steering wheel bending from the pressure as they pulled into their driveway. Stiles gathered up the bags, pushing open his door, but couldn’t move fast enough to dodge his father’s voice.

“What were you signing?” Stiles stilled. His mother hummed, her door open to let the summer heat chase away the artificial cold. “With the doctor after you were discharged?”

Stiles’s heart pounded in his chest as his mom paused, hesitating for half a heartbeat.

“I was finalizing my Do Not Resuscitate paperwork.”

Silence howled in the car, weaving between Stiles’s ribs and pulling until they creaked.

He was used to anger being loud. Stiles was used to Bobby swearing at machines, to grumbling about expenses. Coach Lahey’s anger reverberated off the gym walls, ugly laughter at their failures tolling like broken bells. Stiles was used to anger coming to a boil, he was used to it stinging and biting him over the course of hours.

His father was quiet, not moving in the car. He stared at his wife, unblinking. Stiles worried he was going to pass out from holding his breath.

“Are you _kidding_ me, Claudia?” His father didn’t shout, scream, or curse. He didn’t blink, his words appeared into the air. Stiles clutched the bags close to his chest, a barricade from the simmering rage that welled up in his father’s eyes. His mother had nothing to hold, nothing to cushion the oncoming wave. “You can’t do that.”

“I can.”

“You _won’t.”_

“I _did.”_ His mom’s voice was cold stone on a winter day, a calming, uncomfortable presence. His father recoiled, his lips drawn tight. Saliva pebbled at the corner of his mouth. His mother sat up straight with hands in her lap. Sunbeams cut through the windshield. “Noah, keeping me inside and away from our son isn’t going to make me healthier.”

His dad’s back hit the door, his face twisted and furled, like an animal cornered by a predator, baring its teeth in a final roar before being devoured.

“Everything I’ve done is for _you,_ Claudia. I’ve kept you safe, I’ve kept you calm, and I’ve kept you healthy and you're going to throw all that away?”

_I shouldn’t be here, I shouldn’t be hearing this,_ Stiles thought, hysteric. He couldn’t move, he didn’t want to make a sound that would bring his dad’s attention to him. He was scared what his dad would do if he had to look at the _reminder_ of why his wife was sick. When Stiles was young, he remembered the arguments that would wake him up in the middle of the night, before he knew the words _rheumatic heart disease._ Arguments that would earn him a sharp “back to bed,” from his father if he heard Stiles’s footsteps.

His father shook his head, shoving the door open.

“Unbelievable. You’re _unbelievable.”_

He jabbed his finger at Stiles’s mother like he was casting a spell. He slammed the door, hard enough that Stiles’s ears popped. One of the bags slipped out of his hands, and his mom turned to look at him. Her eyes shimmered, and she burst into motion.

“Stiles,” she opened his door and pulled him into her arms. “I’m here, I’m sorry.”

He shook his head, his eyes swimming with tears.

“It’s okay,” he managed to get out. His throat mangled his words until it sounded like a pathetic attempt at singing.

Sunlight warmed his back and birds chirped. His mom smoothed her hand over his head, holding him tight like she used to when he was a kid. He breathed in, and waited for her to count with him to four. She held him, repeating, “it’s all right,” and Stiles realized his mother had never seen him like this before. She didn’t know about counting the air in his lungs to keep him from hyperventilating.

He did the counts under his breath until his limbs weren’t heavy.

“Stiles,” his mom leaned against the truck. “I’m sick. I’ve spent too long in denial about my life. I believed how I was living would make me healthier, maybe give me a longer life.” The sun’s bright rays washing out her face until all Stiles could see was her glittering teeth. “I’m going to spend the time I have left being a good mom.”

“You _are_ a good mom.” Stiles ground his teeth as he fought to keep his breathing steady. “You are.”

Her eyes slid away from him, a split-second grimace into the sun before she caught sight of the weeds that had taken over the garden. Stiles hadn’t gotten a good look at the outside of his house before. The tomatoes were gone, the last of the basil was struggling to survive among the weeds and wildflowers. The garden had been a part of his childhood hope that his mom would be cured if he was good enough. If he was well-behaved enough, quiet enough, and attentive to the plants enough, then his mom would get better. It was fair, he used to think.

Then he grew up.

The screen door squeaked. Whenever his dad slammed it, no matter how hard he’d yank it, it would never close all the way. The hinges whined, and the silence in the house was ominous. Goosebumps spread down his arms at the thought of going inside.

“I’m going to talk to your father,” his mom sighed.

Stiles wanted to be brave, he wanted to be strong and go in the house first, to hold his head up high without crumbling under the neverending pressure from his father’s gaze. He wanted steady hands. He wanted to always feel like he was in the air doing a double-twist.

“Mom,” Stiles spoke around burning shame at _not_ being fearless, “can I go to Bobby’s?”

He couldn’t look at her. He couldn’t do more than hunch his shoulders and hold on tight to his crutches. He _hoped_ she didn’t ask why, because he knew that telling her the truth would hurt. If he went into the house, if he sat through that argument and heard what his dad was feeling… Stiles could only take so much. He wanted to go to the one place where his existence wasn’t a stain that was never mentioned. Stiles _should_ stay by his mother’s side, he should weather this storm with her, he _knew_ that… as much as he knew he couldn’t do it.

“Sure.” She pulled him into a hug. Her fingers were thin, but strong. “I love you, Stiles.”

“Love you too,” he mumbled into her shirt.

Bobby’s house was a mile and a half walk. By the time he hobbled in, the sky was tangerine orange with streaks of red clouds.

The smell of sweat, coffee, and wet towels chased away the tightness in Stiles’s chest. A few people were left, and Greenberg kept giving them the evil-eye, armed with a towel ready to wipe down the last of the machines. Bobby was at the front desk, squinting at intake forms.

“Hey, Bobby.”

“Hi, punk.” Bobby took a long pull of water. Stiles noticed that Bobby carried his thermos in the mornings, and in the afternoon he switched to a bottle of water. “I didn’t hear your dad pull in.”

“I walked.”

Bobby spit out water.

“You _what?”_

Stiles grinned at the noise, at Bobby huffing and puffing with overblown expressions that never failed to make Stiles laugh. Bobby checked his ankle, and insisted on a warm compress even as he put Stiles on weights. When Coach Lahey made them do drills he counted down, then started over without pause or end in sight. Bobby never counted out loud, he regaled Stiles with the daily annoyances he had to shoulder, making Stiles giggle during his sets. Bobby would tell stories, and stop with a, “that’s enough on that one.”

When it was closing time, every part of Stiles’s body ached, not just his ankle.

“Here,” Bobby held out a bottle of water to Stiles as he locked up, “stay hydrated.”

“Thanks.”

Stiles started down the dirt path to Bobby’s, knowing he’d catch up. When Bobby’s shoulder bumped against his, the old man grimaced into a sigh.

“Dinner is gonna be leftovers tonight, I’m fuckin’ beat.”

Stiles’s house had changed when he came back. The furniture and wallpaper were the same. The silence that filled the halls, the stillness in the air was new. Stiles felt like an intruder when he’d walk down to the kitchen from his room, like he’d been thrown out of whack.

While Stiles was away, Bobby fixed the cabinets that had been hanging by a few screws, he’d sewn up holes in the couch, and fixed up the bathroom tile. Stiles’s room, which had been a spare bed fitted between stacks of boxes Finstock hadn’t sorted through from whenever he’d moved to Beacon Hills, was cleaned. Half the boxes gone and the rest shoved under the bed.

Bobby’s house had changed, but Stiles felt the same sense of belonging deep into his bones when he kicked off his shoes and leaned his crutches against the coat rack.

“I’m gonna take a shower and get into my pajamas.”

Finstock didn’t look around from the refrigerator.

“Knock yourself out.” Stiles saluted to Bobby’s back, hobbling to the bathroom. “Take it easy on your ankle,” Bobby shouted after him, “yell if you need anything!”

When Stiles first slept over Bobby’s house, it hadn’t been planned. Bobby had to dig under the bathroom sink to find an unopened toothbrush box, and Stiles had to double-knot old pants so they didn’t fall down. The T-shirt Bobby had provided was a beer brand with a big hole in the shoulder that Stiles thought was where the sleeve started. The refrigerator had no milk, cereal, or anything for breakfast. Bobby had hustled a still sleepy Stiles into the car to the diner to get him a proper meal.

Stiles learned to pack overnight bags, but he would forget a couple things at his house, or at Bobby’s and over the years it was easier to move things over to Bobby’s house. His gym clothes, his medals… they belonged at Bobby’s.

Dinner was ready by the time Stiles stepped out of the bathroom, his skin scrubbed pink and his pajamas cozy. Bobby had three fans going, the windows open to let in the night breeze.

Bobby’s house was a place where Stiles could always breathe, no matter how awful the day. He sat down, and when bony, frigid fingers tightened around his ribs, he didn’t cry.

He wondered if that sensation was a sign he was growing up.

“Mom signed a Do Not Resuscitate order today.” Bobby fumbled with the plates. They clattered loud on the table, the silverware shaking. Stiles managed a weak smile. “She made the decision. She’s happy with it. Dad isn’t, obviously.”

“Shit, Stiles.”

“Yeah.” Stiles twirled his fork in noodles, starving. “I think she’s tired of staying inside all the time. Keeping me away from her when I was upset… I don’t think that stopped her from worrying anyway.” The moment he slipped his fork into his mouth, he realized he hadn’t eaten all day, there’d never been time and checking out of the hospital had left him in an empty, hollow vortex. He shoveled food into his mouth, ravenous. “Can I stay here tonight? I usually ask first but there wasn't time to.” Stiles swallowed. “Dad was upset and I know it’s better if I’m not there. For right now.”

Bobby nodded, his expression the most serious Stiles had ever seen.

“Of course. You never have to ask, Stiles.”

“I know.” Stiles took a long sip of water, and thought of a joke to bring a smile to Finstock’s face, or at least a frown that was… less _sad._ “Hey, I’m almost seventeen. Can I have a sip of whiskey? It’s been a rough day.”

Stiles smiled, eagerly waiting for the “take a hike, punk,” or, “stop being a smart ass,” that would make them both break into crooked grins. Bobby drew back, his lips twisting into an awkward scowl.

“Uh,” Stiles’s heart slammed in his chest, the awful, shameful flush of _what did I do wrong_ bubbling down his neck. “About that,” Bobby cleared his throat. “I quit.”

Stiles blinked, all the crazy directions his mind went hadn’t been prepared for those two words.

“Quit? Quit what?”

Bobby scratched the back of his neck, his cheeks blotchy and pink.

“Drinking. I quit drinking.”

Stiles gripped the table, a dizzy spell hitting him hard.

“Since when?”

“Uh,” Bobby looked away, his shoulders climbing up to his ears, “it will be a month in a couple days.”

A month.

_A month._

Stiles was out of his chair in seconds. He heard it clatter to the ground behind him, and he ignored the _throb_ in his ankle as he ran, hugging Bobby as hard as he could. The angle was awkward because Bobby was still in his chair. He did his best to hold on, his fingers digging into Bobby’s shoulders.

“You didn’t have to—” Stiles squeezed Bobby tighter as he realized that Bobby had been sober during the Olympics, the two most stressful weeks of Stiles’s life. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.” Stiles heard every word despite them being muffled into Stiles’s quaking shoulders. His hands smoothed down the center of Stiles’s back, over the sharp peaks of vertebrae. He shifted his body to take Stiles’s center of weight off his bad ankle. “It’s all right, sure, it’s hard but I’m getting older. I can’t keep drinking like a fish if I want to live as long as I want to.”

Stiles crumpled to the floor, his hands flew to his face to hide it, to try and muffle the sobs that tore through his throat. It _hurt,_ he was spinning, undone, affection was _drowning him_ and he didn’t care if he never surfaced.

When he cried at home, he felt like a disfigured creature, lumbering, clumsy, and something to be avoided. His dad would move him from room to room, never looking at his face, and sometimes Stiles wondered if his features turned into a grotesque painting that made adults sick.

Bobby never made him feel like a walking disease.

“Hey.” Bobby’s chair squeaked on the tiles, the grunt that meant Finstock was getting on his knees. “Hey, Stiles,” calloused fingers circled around his wrists but didn’t pull. “Look at me, punk.”

Stiles shook his head.

“I c-can’t.” Stiles sucked in wet air, tears flowing fast and hard, like something had been knocked unloose inside him. “I didn’t ask you, did I make you— I never cared about that, I _swear_ —”

“I know.” Bobby squeezed his wrist. “Come on, breathe with me.” Stiles shook his head again, because everything was too hot and he wanted to disappear. “Stiles, I’m doing it for me.”

“Y-Yeah,” Stiles choked on a hiccup, “but isn’t it hard? Doesn’t it hurt to stop?”

Stiles read about withdrawals. He knew how it would hurt the body to be denied something that had been given freely. Stiles thought about how Bobby’s hands had been shaking, how Stiles had thought it was from drinking too much coffee. He thought it had been nerves from the Olympics, that food didn’t agree with him when Bobby was covered in sweat at breakfast.

Bobby’s palm smoothed over Stiles’s head, the other on his knee.

“Sure. Sometimes it fucking sucks, no doubt about it.” Stiles flinched, but Bobby didn’t stop. “But it’s worth it. I want to stick around for a while.” Bobby’s voice cracked. “I want to be here for you. For as long as I can.”

Stiles dragged his hand down his face. Bobby kneeled on the linoleum, his cheeks wet with tears, but his eyes fiery, refusing to look away. Stiles squeezed Bobby’s arm.

“I love you.” Stiles rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “I never said it.” There were times when Stiles had been dying to say it, because he’d say it to his mom, when he’d say goodbye on the phone, when he’d hug her goodnight, and… the words _fit,_ but he didn’t want Bobby to pull away, to _put him in his place_ the way other adults did. “I know we’re not related, but…”

_We’re family,_ lodged in Stiles’s throat. He dropped his eyes, his fingers digging into his palms, worrying the skin. So many times in Stiles’s life, the truth wasn’t wanted. Maybe this was _another_ unspoken thing he was supposed to ignore—

Strong arms wrapped around him, pulling him forward without shifting his balance too much to his left side.

“I love you too, Stiles.”

The words hummed against his temple, ragged, rough, and true. Stiles’s ankle throbbed, and he was sure Bobby’s knees weren’t doing well. They stayed on the floor until Stiles could breathe easy, until they both pulled back to clean their faces. Bobby grumbled and groaned, rubbing his knees as he got up. He helped Stiles with a, “back on your feet.” Stiles washed the dishes, Bobby dried.

They went to bed like they did every night, Stiles complaining about his crutches and Bobby giving his phone a final check for any messages. Stiles hung in the doorway to his room, his shoulder digging into the frame. Their eyes were red-rimmed, their skin raw, but Bobby nudged his shoulder the same.

“See you in the morning, punk.” He turned like he did every night, one final look. “Love you.”

A smile wobbled onto Stiles’s lips.

“Goodnight, Bobby. Love you too.”

Funny, how something new felt like it always belonged.

::::

Allison had been all over the world for competitions. Every “vacation” bingo card that went around Instagram, Allison would have the whole thing filled out. She’d make an “X” over each square with a smug, “been there.” However, as her dad followed GPS to Stiles’s address, Allison realized that she travelled from gym to gym, competition to competition. All gyms looked the same, and on planes and busses Allison used that free time to catch up on schoolwork.

“Whoa,” Kira breathed against the window.

They were directed onto smaller roads until pavement was overrun with dirt and pebbles. Lush trees thinned out into twisted branches, starving for water. Small houses sat on acres of farmland. Allison and Kira were in the back seat, staring out their windows with food in their lap. Peter whistled a po-dunk twang.

“Chris, we might get run out of town if we’re not out by sundown.”

“Peter,” Kira nudged the back of his seat. “Be nice.”

Peter twisted around with a smirk.

“I’m saving any niceties I have left for dinner.”

Allison, Kira, and Stiles had their own group chat, which was filled with everything from heartfelt conversations to memes. They’d keep up with Kira’s tournaments, Allison’s practice regime, and Stiles’s… well, as much as he wanted to share. Google provided updates on the Lahey case, but the trial was still far off.

It was during one of the nights when Allison was up late, texting back and forth with Stiles. She understood things were easier to text, like talking about his mother’s condition, his dad’s growing unease, and Stiles’s uncertainty.

_I miss you guys so much_ had lit up Allison’s face at one in the morning.

_What if we could visit you? Kira’s got competitions on the West Coast. We can make it a trip!_

Kira was onboard the moment she was awake, and so there they were, driving from the closest AirBnB from Stiles’s house, which still managed to be an hour away. Allison got up early to help her dad prepare onions, garlic, ginger, as her dad cleaned and prepared fresh rabbit for the stew. Peter and Kira stopped by a farmer’s market and, according to Peter, “bought the most pretentious and expensive cheese board we could find.”

The _“You’ve arrived,”_ from her dad’s phone made Allison shiver.

“I got it,” her dad pulled the pot out of her hands. “Go say hi. You’ll be glad you weren’t lugging this around.”

Allison wasn’t sure what her dad was talking about until her and Kira were shoulder-to-shoulder, the doorbell’s echo ringing in the house as footsteps thundered on the other side of the door. Stiles threw the door open and Allison understood why her dad anticipated that she’d need her hands. She threw her arms around Stiles without thinking, her arms looping around Kira’s until they were a laughing, screaming mess in the doorway.

Allison’s _OhmyGodOhmyGodOhmyGod_ was overlapped with Kira’s _you look great, how are you doing, it’s so good to see you,_ was joined with Stiles’s array of noises. He pulled them inside, and the introductions got started.

There was Mr. and Mrs. Stilinski, Scott McCall, and his mother Melissa.

Mr. Stilinski shook all their hands and didn’t say much aside from hello. Mrs. Stilinski had the warm introduction of, “Please, call me Claudia,” and Scott was staring at Allison’s and Kira’s arms, which ended up with them in the backyard comparing muscles. Stiles laughed as Allison and Kira were pressed side-to-side, holding out their arms mid-flex.

“Damn,” Kira blew out the breath she’d been holding. “Well, it makes sense. Allison’s an archer, her arms need to be perfect.”

When Allison went over to a friend’s house for the first time, there would be a tour of the house before retreating to the other person’s room. This was the first time that the retreat led them outside, to the backyard where a tiny garden was overrun with weeds.

Scott was riveted by Kira explaining the intricacies of fencing rules, complete with demonstrations on false starts and fouls with a stick Kira picked up. Stiles nudged Allison.

“Thanks for coming over.”

“Of course.” Allison prodded him where he was ticklish. “I missed you too.” Allison wanted to ask about gymnastics, if he’d made a decision, but instead all that came out was, “is Bobby coming?”

Sure enough, a loud burst of noise had Stiles turning back towards his house with a grin.

“Come on,” Stiles jerked his head toward the house. “Dinner can start now.”

Dinner was a strange term for what was a semi-late lunch. It was three in the afternoon, but Claudia’s health wasn’t well enough for her to stay up later in the evening. Allison had come to expect a lot of things from dinners with adults and teenagers at a big table. Adults maintained polite inclusion for about a half hour, before the table split up, two separate conversations rising to an unbearable roar until the first family decided to go home.

Dinner with Stiles was different.

His mom couldn’t cook because the kitchen would get too stuffy and she’d end up needing the oxygen tank, so dinner came from Bobby.

“I did my best,” Bobby’s teeth tore into the word, like the lack of expletive cushioning made it harder to spit out. “It might be bull— bad, but I tried. I’ll pay for pizza if it’s gross.” He pulled foil off the large platter, and Allison’s eyes widened. She knew the words he was going to say before he took a breath. “It’s lime chicken with linguini. I haven’t made it before but I was told it's good. So. Have at it.”

His cheeks grew redder and redder with every word before he sat down next to Stiles. Allison shot a look to her father but he revealed nothing as he cleared his throat.

“I made rabbit stew. Something simple—”

“He’s lying.” Peter leered with a smirk. “Chris and Allison were up at six this morning making sure everything was perfect. Chris brought those rabbits in a cooler that he hunted himself.” Chris glared at him and Peter shrugged. “What? Modesty is a waste of time.”

It was Allison and her dad’s turn to turn red, which made Peter laugh harder. Kira hushed him, though she couldn’t tamper down her matching grin.

Allison dug into one of her dad’s recipes that Bobby must have gotten _somehow._ Every time she tried to whisper to her dad about it, he’d reply with a “I’ll tell you later.” The food was praised, and instead of wine Peter provided sparkling cider with a wink and nudge in Bobby’s direction.

Usually, the hosting parents were dominant in the conversation. To Allison’s surprise, both Stilinskis were silent, Stiles’s father focusing on his food while Claudia eyes were wide in rapt attention as Stiles and Bobby spun stories, encouraging Allison, Kira, and Scott to chime in with different jokes and experiences. By the time dinner was over, the sun was starting to set and Mr. Stilinski was helping Claudia out of her chair.

“Thank you,” Allison shook Claudia’s hand. “This was so much fun, we should do it again.”

“Of course,” Claudia whispered, much quieter than she’d been at the start. “You’re welcome any time.”

Her husband made a noise like he didn’t agree. Allison followed her dad down the narrow hallway that led to the front door. She realized that she hadn’t seen one medal, ribbon, or trophy that belonged to Stiles. All the walls were filled with family photos, but not _one_ thing that hinted that Stiles was an Olympic level athlete.

Scott and Melissa left first. Kira and Peter put the empty pot that housed the stew in the trunk. Bobby cleared his throat.

“If you want coffee before you hit the road—”

“ _Yes,_ you should come over to Bobby’s house!” Stiles interrupted, his cheeks flushed. “It will be fun, I can show you all my stuff.”

Allison and Kira both turned to her dad and Peter, a _please_ on their lips. Peter nudged Allison’s dad.

“Coffee sounds great. Doesn’t it, Chris?”

“Yes.” Her dad had an edge to his voice, the kind that was a _warning,_ but Allison was relieved it wasn’t aimed at her and instead at the smirking Peter. He turned to Bobby. “That would be great, if that’s what you were offering.”

The drive was short, and while the food sat heavy and hearty in Allison’s stomach, a buzzing energy filled her when the car stopped in a dirt driveway. Stiles waved, and Allison was out of the car before it had stopped. She ran, with Kira, up rickety steps to a yellow house with a slanted porch. She heard the amused tones of her father, but was too excited to care when Stiles opened the door in a grand, sweeping gesture.

“This is the kitchen,” he hurried them through a _tiny_ kitchen with worn out chairs and dishes piled in the sink. “Living room,” Stiles walked them past a cozy couch with a bunch of patches sewn on it, a boxy television with a VHS player and tapes stacked beneath it. “And this is my room,” Stiles beamed.

He opened the door.

Orange curtains fluttered from the summer wind, a nice breeze blowing across rumpled bed sheets. An old Spider-Man poster hung on the wall, and narrow shelves were crammed with books, games, and movies. Stiles spoke a mile a minute, motioning for them to sit with him on the floor as he pulled out a game. Allison bent her knees, and a glimmer caught her eye.

Medals, ribbons, and trophies lined two walls, a few pictures of him winning Nationals taped to the corner of the Spider-Man poster. The house was small, the space was cramped, but it felt like a real _home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh thank you so much for your patience guys. As I said in the last chapter, I want to make this into a proper book when this is done, so editing is taking a lot longer. Editing is difficult as well since the chapters are so long, and I know I leave mistakes because it’s just impossible to catch them all when it’s my own work. 
> 
> Things have been going as well as they can be right about now. I still (for now) have a job, which is great, but every week it’s waiting to see if that changes. I hope you’re all staying safe and healthy as you can, and that this helps just a little in a way. We’re all doing what we can at this time, and I’m just lucky enough that writing is coming easier these past weeks.
> 
> I’m sorry this chapter took so long. I’ll try to get better, but between the pandemic and my own mental health journey, I can’t make any promises. I hope the wait time is worth it, but I’m sorry it has been a while. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you guys liked the chapter, let me know if you did or didn’t. I’m having a blast with these two, and I hope you guys are too. Stay safe! I love you!
> 
> I’ll still be active on tumblr for the time being, but there are other ways to find me. [**Here**](http://mia6363.tumblr.com/about) you can see a little breakdown of other places to find me and the other things I do in relation to these fics (journals/behind the scenes, playlists, head canons). [**So click on over** ](http://mia6363.tumblr.com/about)to get the full rundown!
> 
> The art is by [**the fantastic Liz**](https://eklixio.tumblr.com/), check out her page and her instagram, she’s amazing, and the year headers were made by me :) 


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